


Glass and Bone

by EarlApril



Category: 101 Dalmatians (1961), 101 Dalmatians (1996)
Genre: 1960s, 20th Century, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Drama, Beauty - Freeform, Blood and Gore, Boss - Freeform, Boss/Employee Relationship, Britain, Business, Businessmen, Cross-Posted on Quotev, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Cross-Posted on deviantArt, Dark, Disney, Disney villain, Drama, Drama & Romance, Earl-April, Emotional Manipulation, England (Country), Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fanfiction, Feminism, Feminist Themes, Genderbending, Genderswap, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Historical drama, Horror, Infatuation, Inspiration, London, Male - Freeform, Male! Cruella de Vil, Manipulation, Modeling, Money, Muses, Nude Modeling, Nude Photos, Nudity, Original Cartoon, Original Character(s), Originally Posted Elsewhere, Patriarchy, Period-Typical Sexism, Plot, Pop Culture, Post-Canon, Psychological Drama, Reader-Insert, References to Cartoon Sequel, References to Live-Action, References to TV Series, Romance, Second-Wave Feminism, Self-Insert, Sexism, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut, Song references, Strong Language, Toxic Relationships, UK - Freeform, Wealth, Work, cartoon, fashion - Freeform, mature - Freeform, ongoing, toxic, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22702894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarlApril/pseuds/EarlApril
Summary: I work for a prestigious fashion company located in the middle of London. Unfortunately, I feel as if I have bitten off more than I can chew since I'm now beginning to discover that I may be out of my depth. The cameras hate anything less than perfection, so anything less than perfection is unsatisfactory for House of DeVil. However, I find it hard to be perfect when it somehow comes so naturally to everyone else, especially my boss, Cruell De Vil. I don't see why he's not the one posing in front of a camera for money when he's gorgeous. Though, when I began to think he wasn't any of my concern, life threw a curveball.Now I'm his new muse....And everyone hates me.
Relationships: Cruella de Vil (101 Dalmatians)/Reader, Minor Characters/Reader, Minor or Background Relationship(s), cruella de vil reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 81





	1. Introduction

** ** ** **

** Introduction **

* * *

Hey guys,

I just want to thank you all for taking the time to read this! I hope you enjoy this fanfiction! It has been so fun to create and I am in love with Cruella de Vil! She is one of my favorite Disney villains!

This fanfic has been heavily inspired by Black Swan and The Devil Wears Prada.

 ** _SPOILER WARNING!_** This fanfic contains major spoilers for both the original Disney 1961 101 Dalmations cartoon, 101 Dalmatians II: Patch's London Adventure and the 1996 live-action. I recommend you watch both before reading this story if you haven't watched one or both and don't want the story spoiled.

Just to clear a few things up, this fanfic is set following the events in the first original 101 Dalmatians cartoon. Not much is known about Cruella in the cartoon so I've combined elements from the live-action even though I am going off the original 1961 cartoon as the main source material. I am aware that in the cartoon, Cruella is a rich 60s heiress and in the live-action and 101 Dalmatians: The Series, she owns a fashion house in the 90s. I have combined all to give more of a lifestyle to Cruell and to elaborate on his character more since, as I mentioned above, not much is known about his original female counterpart in the cartoon. I do also want to note, that due to continuity issues (and the fact that I don't like Cruella's more silly, kid-friendly, dumb, cartoonish representation), I have chosen to mostly ignore the TV series despite it being canon. Some references will be made to it, but as a general source, it isn't very good. If you want to know more about the continuity issues, then you can read all about it on the 101 Dalmatians: The Series page on both the Disney and 101 Dalmatians Fandom Wiki.

As a disclaimer, I want to warn you all that this fanfiction I have flagged this story as mature. I advise you to leave now if you are underage or if the topics listed below make you uncomfortable in any way. I want to make it clear that I **DO NOT** support the themes featured in this story. Please be mindful that the mature topics listed may change due to this story being incomplete. So make sure to check the disclaimers regularly since new mature content may appear in the future. Do remember that this story is intended for entertainment purposes only and should not be taken to heart. The predicted age range for this story is +18, but that may change along with the topics listed due to this story being incomplete. However, +18 is the overall predicted age range based on the subjects that are planned to come up in the story. I will not be held responsible for anyone's actions so if you are underage; there's obviously nothing I can physically do to stop you but do remember that this is your decision and I have nothing to do with that. Proceed on your own accord, but I will not be held accountable for anyone's actions.

\---

**_(This story is incomplete! These content warnings may change!)_ **

**Mature Content:**

\- Strong language

\- Graphic depictions of violence and gore

\- Masochism/self-harm

\- Sexual content

\- Sexism and patriarchy

\- Mental illness (e.g., depression, anxiety, insomnia, etc.)

\- Implied alcohol abuse/alcoholism

\---

This story mentions brands that you may be familiar with. Though I am not sponsored by any of them, they are merely in here for pop culture or contextual references.

Additionally, I don't wish to see any arguments or hostile behavior in the comments. If this is directed at me or anyone else, then your comment will quickly be deleted. Everybody has three strikes. After that, you will be either muted or reported. That said, coming back to the disclaimer above; I also don't wish to see anybody or anybody's parents complaining about the mature themes. Like I mentioned before, you are reading this at your own risk, so any actions taken by you are your own responsibility. If you don't like this story, then click away and don't read it! Please don't waste everyone's time by complaining. Just like with hostile behavior, I will delete your comment as soon as it arrives. I don't want to sound aggressive, but I just want to make this clear to some people. On the other hand, I'm open to any nice comments, constructive criticism or questions!

Due to this being the AO3 edition, I will be moderating comments so I can monitor the 'troublesome' commenters. Don't worry yourself over it since it's only to prevent people from using vulgar words or writing anything horrible. In most cases, your comment will immediately be approved! Don't be put off from stating your opinion, whether you like the story or not! I will never delete your comment as long as it follows the guidelines listed below. I'm happy to hear your thoughts and whether you have any constructive criticism for me! Feel free to say whatever you want as long as you're being civilized and not wasting everyone's time. Listed below are the guidelines for what could (or in some cases, will) get your comment deleted so, please be mindful of what you're writing!

\---

**Comment Guidelines:**

\- No excessive use of strong language. (Limit strong language as best as you can. Since this is a mature story I will allow strong language provided the site does, but please don't go overboard with it. However, I will not tolerate any extremely offensive words such as the C-word, the N-word or anything similar. If the word is used in the story, I will allow it.)

\- No spam. (No telling others to read your story, no links to any shady websites, no asking people to follow you on social media, no telling people to buy your stuff, etc. This wastes everyone's time and is not needed here so it will be deleted immediately. This also includes certain conversations. You are not forced to only discuss the story, but comments will be deleted if there is an extremely long conversation on just one or two topics. I would prefer it if we tried to refrain from clogging up the comment section.)

\- Be respectful. (Vulgar comments will get your comment deleted. This can range from insults to discriminatory comments such as homophobic, racist or sexist comments.)

\- No giving out personal information. (Similar to spam, any form of giving out of your personal information will get your comment deleted. This includes things such as your phone number, email address, house address, ZIP code/postcode, etc.)

\- No grooming or predatory behavior. (This includes sexting, attempting to gain personal information, flirtation, etc.)

\- No controversial topics. (This includes political bias, opinions on people in power, religious beliefs, opinions on migration, the age of consent, etc. This can stir up a lot of never-ending arguments so please try to stay away from topics such as these. Stating your opinion is fine, since the story will discuss some big questions but comments will be deleted when arguments or heated conversations begin to arise.)

\---

Last, of all, I want to note that almost all of the pictures in this story don't belong to me and I do not take ownership of them. I created the cover for this story but the photo featured in the cover I don't take credit for. Credit goes to the original artist!

101 Dalmatians is a Disney film and all of the canon characters belong to them. This story is a fanfiction that is non-canon to the original show with no official link to its original source. Cruell de Vil is a non-canon gender-bent counterpart of the original Disney villain, Cruella de Vil. The fanfic itself and all of the minor OCs (Original Characters) in this series pertain to me. The real-life characters such as (Name) for example, belong to you, dear reader. The non-canon characters are listed below. Expect to see certain names possibly appear and disappear whenever this page gets updated.

\---

**_(Some full names have been removed to avoid spoilers. A full list will be provided when the story is complete!)_ **

**Real-Life Characters:**

(Name) (Middle Name) (Surname) / Reader

(Mother) (Surname) / Mom

(Father) (Surname) / Dad

Thomas (Surname)

**YandereswithKnives OCs:**

Monica Harris

Marcelle Dean

Lisa Adler

Fred O'Connor

Esmé Boutroux

Fred Taylor

Christine Fox

Robin Barker

Mary Porter

\---

**⚠️Mature warning! This story contains graphic descriptions of violence and gore, sexual content, strong language, and imitable behavior. This story could be potentially triggering. This story is not suitable for children or sensitive readers! Please consult the introduction for further details regarding the disclaimers. The predicted age rating for this story is +18. This warning may change. Read at your own risk!⚠️**

Cover created by me, image featured in the cover is not mine.  
101 Dalmatians © Disney.  
(Name) © You.  
OCs © YandereswithKnives.

© 2020– YANDERESWITHKNIVES ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Text copyright © YandereswithKnives 2020–

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

If you wish to contact me, you can either email me, send me a message through Wattpad or Tumblr.

**For frequent updates on the progress of this fanfiction, check my Tumblr feed!**

Email: YandereswithKnives@gmail.com

Tumblr: [yandereswithknives](https://yandereswithknives.tumblr.com/)

I hope you all enjoy the story, and I'm sorry for putting you to sleep with this!

\- YandereswithKnives


	2. Chapter 1: House of DeVil

** Chapter 1: House of DeVil **

* * *

_Don't go in there._

_The lights are too bright._

_The cameras are too intrusive._

_The clothes are too trashy._

_Don't go inside._

_You might not come out._

"Lovely (Name)! Just lovely! Now, can you please look directly at the camera and put on your best nonchalant face? Maybe lift your head a bit?" the man asked, looking up from the camera. He was wearing the same strange smile that he always donned whenever he took photos of you. Sometimes you thought it unsettling.

The fake smile that you plastered on your face for the camera fell at the earliest opportunity, along with your patience. You hated having to smile when there was nothing to smile about. You were happy enough to drain your expression of any and all emotion, no 'putting on' needed.

You lifted your head and stared emotionlessly at the lens of the camera, as Fred, the cameraman, adjusted it aligned it back up to his eye. You watched the gleeful smirk curl onto his lips from behind the camera. That meant you looked good. He always furrowed his eyebrows or looked back up with a frown if you were doing something wrong or had any form of a flaw.

"Beautiful..." he muttered as he snapped a few shots. He then moved to the left and took some more. "Maybe look to your right?" he suggested.

You did just that and stared at the magazine covers that were framed on the walls. The faces of countless young, beautiful women stared back at you with doe eyes. You suddenly felt very self-conscious, unable not to compare yourself to their flawless skin and skinny bodies. They all stared at you, almost taunting you with their otherworldly beauty.

You didn't miss the face of Esmé Boutroux, posing on the floor in a rather sensual position, staring right at you with her shamrock green eyes. She was the darling of the company — a role model and an award-winning model. A lot of people looked up to her and aspired to get where she was, especially the other models in the company. She was allegedly Mr. De Vil's favorite. However, you found such a person hard to look up to. You didn't deny that she was talented and gorgeous. Yet, you felt that Esmé's personality was a bit of a turn off in terms of a role model. She was polite enough but wasn't exactly humble about her position and legacy in both the company and internationally.

"Good, good (Name)! You're absolutely stunning!" Fred grinned, snapping photos before looking up. "You've done beautifully, sweetie! A nice stoic face! You're a snow-capped volcano!" he praised, looking very pleased with himself.

You raised an eyebrow at his remark, not understanding but kept your moth shut nonetheless. You assumed he must have been referring to your innate ability to look cold and aloof despite your hot and fiery personality that he always claimed you had.

You had received several comments from your co-workers that you were quite unemotional. No doubt, many had used it to badmouth you behind closed doors. Not that you cared, though. You didn't consider anyone at work as your friend. The men were pigs, and the young girls were so flighty. They dressed trashily, but it was a drop in the ocean compared to the rubbish that came out of their mouths.

"Marcelle? Can you bring the chair over, please?" Fred asked your makeup artist, Marcelle. She looked up from her large duffle bag hanging around her waist and quietly clicked her tongue upon the request, but heeding it nonetheless.

You felt bad for her. You weren't sure whether you liked her, but you felt bad for her. You both understood each other on an emotional level. You had an equal dislike for everyone and everything around you at your workplace, including yourself, on occasions. You imagined that it was near enough the same for Marcelle, so hence the mutual understanding.

She was okay as any makeup artist could get, and in your opinion, she was good at what she did. Though, in the eyes of the company, she was the fourth-best makeup artist they had. In other words, she was expendable and nothing worthy of recognition. Even though one could argue she did well since she was in the top five, there were only seven makeup artists in the company tops, so making that argument was doomed to fail before it even began. She was easily replaceable and easily unmissed. Not to mention, she was a woman. So to sum it up, conditions applied to the reliability of her job.

"Just set it over there. (Name), sweetie? Could you just sit down on the chair with your right leg out, hands on the seat, looking to the left," Fred instructed, carefully observing as you did as you were told, sitting down and giving the green felt dress you were wearing another once-over for what must have been the 43rd time that afternoon. "Turn your head a bit more...bit more...bit more...bit—ah, great!" he grinned, giving a thumb up before covering his face with the camera again.

Then there was Fred. Fred's story was a simple one. He grew up in Devon into an upper-middle-class family. He went to the University of Exeter to get his degree in Photography and Filming, which eventually landed him a job at House of DeVil by the time he hit thirty. The man was now going on forty, divorced, a sexist swine, mostly friendless, and eking out a meager living by making money through his camera and losing it through his chronic addiction to cigars and gambling. You and the other models all dreaded photoshoots since every time he was there to conduct them. His perverted crush on you was not flattering nor consoling. Getting someone else to do it was out of the question since, for better or for worse, he was the best in the business. Much to your dismay, he was an expert, and experts always secured a job. So whether you liked him or not, he was there to stay. No conditions applying.

"You look absolutely stunning, sweetie!" Fred praises again, snapping photos by the dozen. "Have I mentioned that that dress suits you very well? It shows off your voluptuous body."

You did you best not to cringe, and stayed still, clenching your teeth instead. A cold shiver traveled up your spine, but you ignored it and stared at the brown door adjacent to you, desperately wishing for it to open and gravitate towards you magically.

However, only one of those wishes came true, notwithstanding the idea of magic being the cause. Unless of course, you lived in the world of the eighty-nine percent of the females at the company, in which case, yes, magic was the root.

The door burst open, and you immediately cringed from the shock (for real this time). Your eyes naturally flicked to the door after they began to wander around the room in a pathetic attempt to stare at something that was even the littlest bit entertaining to numb the everlasting and inexorable boredom that came with sitting on a wooden chair in front of a screen while a white, middle-aged man pressed a button on a Kodak.

You tensed up as soon as you spotted a giant fur coat. Your eyes slightly widened from the shock of seeing your boss bust through the door, unforeseen.

Sharp arctic blue eyes were fixed on Fred, in a signature frown as a pair of black python skin dress shoes and black tailored dress pants made brisk, long strides towards the older man's location.

Shortly after, a petite, yet stylish young woman followed promptly behind with a small spring in her step. Brunette straightened hair bounced off her shoulders, and her black heels made small clacks against the glossy wooden flooring. Christine, Mr. De Vil's personal assistant, followed along behind, carrying a clipboard in her left arm with a content yet infuriating smile on her face.

As Mr. De Vil approached Fred, not even sparing you and Marcelle a glance, he opened his mouth to speak.

"I want to see all of this month's photos," he announced, bluntly.

"Of course!" Fred smiled, not even thinking to question Mr. De Vil, from the moment he entered the room.

Fred gathered the photos from the other side on the room, Mr. De Vil, stood there impatiently, tapping his foot and occasionally taking a drag out of his long, red cigarette holder. Quite a feminine thing, but now Mr. De Vil had made it quite fashionable amongst some men. But who would he be if he didn't start trends?

You upturned your nose, able to smell the strong odor from where you stood (which was a few good meters away). You gave a polite half-smile to Christine after she sent you and Marcelle a polite greeting smile, that was no doubt in reparation for Mr. De Vil's rude but expected lack of acknowledgment.

You quickly got bored of watching Fred shuffle through papers on the desk across the room and gave Mr. De Vil's coat a once-over and honed in on the type of fur.

 _'Ah, wolf fur,'_ you confirmed, studying the fur. _'Grey wolf...maybe Eastern...'_

"Here, they are!" Fred smiled, gathering up a pile of printed photos and quickly returning to Mr. De Vil.

Once Fred approached him and offered the photos, he didn't make any comment on his lack of patience and how he didn't like to be left waiting, much to your surprise. He only rose a brow disapprovingly as he took the photos and immediately began flipping through them.

You suddenly got both anxious and curious, wondering if you were in any of those photos. The chances were high. You did your best to look away and kill your curiosity but your eyes kept returning to Mr. De Vil's frown to watch it carefully.

"Crap...ghastly...terrible posture...okay... she's clearly overweight, get rid of her," he scoffed, thrusting a specific photo at Fred, causing him to look down at the picture in shock and give it to Marcelle to hold, much to her dismay. You wanted to see who it was since all of the models were skinny, but having said that, you kept your mouth shut. "Ew...horrible...okay...no...okay...okay...dreadful...hideous...get rid of this girl too...okay...okay...crap...that outfit looks dreadful on her...okay but could do better...abhorrent...too macabre...no...no...okay...no...okay..." he finished, looking up with a raised eyebrow. Christine, who had collected all the bad photos (minus the two of the apparent fired girls which were held in Marcelle's arms now), handed the pile to Fred while Mr. De Vil looked over the ones that he dubbed as satisfactory.

Fred took back the bad ones with an unaltered smile. Marcelle watched with an unhindered gaze that did little to mask her almost out of character interest in the situation. Though she would deny it, it seemed that even she was susceptible to the DeVil's charms.

Your gaze shifted to Christine, who ticked some boxes on the page of her clipboard and then flipped to the next page to write something down. Although it could have been anything in the world, you somehow felt both suspicious and curious. The faint smirk on her lips made you wonder why she appeared to be in such a good mood. She was the PA of Cruell de Vil for Pete's sake; no one should ever look that relaxed, let alone jolly. Fair enough, everyone knew she loved it, but yet she seemed happier to her usual jovial mood and inflated ego (if that was even possible).

Mr. De Vil looked down at the remaining photos with a critical eye. "I like these. For this batch, make sure you run the photos by me before you send them down."

"Of course!" Fred smiled, glancing back at you. "You can take a look at the ones I've just taken if you like?"

"No, I have to run, I need to check the ones in the next room," he said bluntly, turning around to leave.

As he turned, you noticed what Mr. De Vil was wearing under his coat. He wore a clean tailored black vest with a white shirt under it with a red foulard tie.

You froze when Mr. De Vil looked at you for what must have been the first time since you worked there. You had never met him, nor had he ever acknowledged your presence. It was rare that you and most of the other employees ever saw him. However, when one encountered Cruell de Vil, they had one of three reactions.

Number one: they practically swooned or were stunned into a smitten stupour. Some would desperately seek out ways to gain his attention, become awfully shy, stumble over words, or even work up the courage to flirt with him. This reaction was primarily reserved for women, like Marcelle or Christine.

Number two: they jumped at the opportunity to sell something, gain work, gain a promotion, show off their skills, or get professionally involved with him in some manner. However, this almost always failed, and anyone who let the thought even cross their mind for a split second was in for a let down that they would most likely never forget. This usually applied to people like Fred or Esmé, who were the prime opportunists of your generation.

Number three: they pissed their pants, ran out of the room, or felt the urge to glare until their eyeballs caught fire. Cruell de Vil was a strong character with a personality that was impossible to stay neutral on. In short, you either loved him or you hated him, and that was that. Some employees, trembled at the mere invoking of his name, while others like you, just wanted to jump out of a ten-story window or punch a spotted wall with your face.

Cruell de Vil wasn't one to be taken lightly. Though, regardless of how anyone felt towards him, he wrote the cheques and was respected nonetheless. Everyone who knew him respected him, and that's what the three types of people had in common. Whether it was through love, fear, or simply the money in his wallet, Mr. De Vil managed to extract the respect out of each and every living soul around him. That was just a fact. He was the top dog and held a phantom position that was arguably much higher than an editor-in-chief and designer and the son of the CEO of a globalized fashion company. He was there to stay and that was that. Conditions _never_ applying.

You returned Mr. De Vil's gaze with equal intensity. Your emotionless expression mirrored his as his icy blue eyes gave you a brief once-over. You could have just imagined it, but you swore you saw him furrow his eyebrows as he fully turned to you and examined the mermaid dress you were wearing.

"Get her in something red. It would suit her better. That shade of green doesn't go with her hair at all, she looks ghastly," he frowned, not holding back.

It took quite a lot to avert your gaze and prevent yourself from glowering. Your apathetic expression remained the same, but by sheer luck, you forgot to outwardly react. It seemed as if you were getting too good at your job.

You didn't think there was anything wrong with the dress, but you were a model and not a stylist nor a rich man with an opinion that mattered, so your judgment equated to nothing. Best to just shut up and deal with it.

"Of course!" Fred replied as you eyed his ass-kissing smile through your peripheral, wanting no more than to slap it off his face.

Mr. De Vil briskly turned away and left the room with Christine scurrying after him. As soon as the door shut, Fred turned to you with a forced, condescending sigh and a 'sympathetic' smile as he shook his head. Suddenly, you felt like a naughty child that had made a mess on the living room floor.

You didn't mask the waspish expression as he approached you. Unlike with Mr. De Vil, you weren't reluctant to hide your distaste for him. He was only a photographer after all. You both had similar ranks in terms of the business hierarchy, but that didn't stop him from acting like your superior. You blamed the testosterone.

"Don't worry, it's Lisa's fault for putting you in that dress. I didn't realize Mr. De Vil would take such a disliking to it," he smirked, putting his hands up in surrender at your expression.

 _'Or to me...'_ you thought, unconvinced. Somehow, in spite of what Fred said, you still got the impression that he was blaming you regardless. It just made the statement all the more condescending and stupid.

You just raised an eyebrow and silently stared him down until he turned away with the same shit-eating grin.

"I think that's our time up anyway. Marcelle? Can you put the chair back, please?"

You stood up and headed over to the dressing room while Marcelle put the chair back and followed you over to the door.

As soon as you got back to the room, you groaned and leaned against the wall.

"Don't let it get to you, he's an asshole," Marcelle commented absentmindedly, dumping her bag on the floor.

"Who — Fred or Mr. De Vil?" you muttered, staring at the ceiling. Marcelle just looked at you until you looked at her silently. "You know I don't care. Fred just drives me up the wall with his condescending treatment and perverted stares."

Marcelle nodded her head. "You have any idea what that sudden visit was about?"

"You really think I know?" you sighed, fiddling with the hem of your dress.

"You're right. I shouldn't count on you for gossip," she sighed, turning away and rummaging through the draws. "Get that dress off, and I'll remove your makeup and track down Lisa."

You turned, grabbed your clothes, and walked over to the dressing room, and pulled the curtain, so you were eclosed inside. You immediately began stripping out of the dress, taking extra caution not to damage it. A few minutes later, you came out with the dress over your arm, to see your stylist, Lisa standing there talking to Marcelle.

" _Seriously_? He came into the photoshoot?" she asked, eyes wide and curious. As soon as you came out, she turned to you. "Hey, (Name), Marcelle tells me that Mr. De Vil came in during shooting. Is that true?"

"Yeah," you replied, handing her the green dress. "He said the dress looked horrible by the way...sorry..." you mentioned, giving her a sympathetic frown.

She took it with furrowed eyebrows. "Really? I thought you looked lovely in it."

"I thought it was nice too, but apparently it doesn't suit me."

"Hmm...oh well then," Lisa shrugged, placing the dress in a plastic covering. "What was he wearing this time?"

"Wolfskin coat," you replied, sitting down at the chair so Marcelle could remove your makeup.

"I don't understand why he feels the need to waltz around the building in a coat. I get that it's February, but doesn't he ever get hot?" she mused, checking the dress for any stains, rips, or missing buttons.

"I imagine it's a matter of principle," Marcelle shrugged, tieing your hair back before squiring some makeup cleaner onto her hand and rubbing it over your face.

"He doesn't go around the building wearing it. He wears it on his way in and out or when he's in public," you interjected.

"Oh my, you've definitely done your homework, haven't you (Name)?" Lisa smirked, placing the dress on a hanger.

"Not really. Christine told me."

"Ugh, she's so catty. She thinks she's all that just because she's his PA. Little does she know, not everyone envies her job," Lisa huffed.

Lisa was nice but it didn't excuse her tendency to badmouth a lot of her co-workers. Besides that, she was okay, but you couldn't stand to be in her company for too long, for she loved to talk and never seemed to stop. She went into the first category of being smitten with Mr. De Vil, hence her immense interest in his sudden appearance.

"She was following Mr. De Vil around with a clipboard and ticking off things or something. Do you have any idea why he suddenly decided to wander around?" Marcelle asked, washing off your cleanser with a damp rag.

"Well, you two haven't been here for very long, so it's only natural for you to be confused, but despite the moral panic, it's really nothing new. Mr. De Vil likes to personally check in on the progress of his employees from time to time, to make sure they're keeping up to his expectations. He doesn't do it too often, but when he does, it's unexpected. That way, he's able to see who's been slacking and who hasn't," she explained, putting the dress away on a rack for the time being. "Though...now and then, his check-ups become more frequent for a while if there has been a recent fuck up or a change of some sort," she smirked, leaning in as if she was at a fourteen-year-olds' sleepover, revealing the name of her secret crush of three months. You gazed at her questionably while Marcelle gave her a suspicious but interested gaze as she grabbed a pad to clean your mascara and eyeshadow.

"So, which was it then?" Marcelle asked while you closed your eyes.

"Well, I'm not really one to gossip, _but_..." Lisa said, dragging it out while you rolled your eyes behind your closed eyelids. "I heard that our little darling Esmé might be getting to the end of her modeling career."

Although you obviously couldn't see her expression, you could hear the giant, hopeful smirk in her tone. You didn't blame her for feeling optimistic upon hearing a rumor like that, but unlike Lisa, you weren't going to hold your breath.

"You mean she's retiring? For real?"

"Mmhmm! That's what Mary and Linda told me. Apparently, she's already on her way out as we speak. Guess they've gotten bored of her or something. Say she'll be gone by June — maybe sooner depending on when they find a replacement for her."

Marcelle scoffed, " _A replacement_? For _Esmé_? Don't make me laugh. How can you replace _a_ _literal star_? That's like trying to find a replacement for Marilyn Monroe."

"I think Esmé _was_ the replacement for Marilyn Monroe," you remarked, opening your eyes.

"No, no, that's what I heard! Apparently, she's been doing a lot to keep this quiet for as long as possible. She's just hit thirty; they're going to kick her out. I think she may have been using those fancy creams to hide her age, but I guess you can't stop Mother Nature..." Lisa hummed.

"What does Mr. De Vil think of all this?" asked Marcelle.

"Who knows," she shrugged, "though, apparently, he's looking for a new muse," she smirked, with a cheeky glint in her eye.

Oh, goodie. All of the women from Paris to New York would flood in once the media got wind of it. You could already see the tabloid headlines. You would not look forward to weaving your way through all the press from The Daily Mirror to the London Evening Standard in the mornings.

"You think that's why he's wandering about?" Marcelle inquired.

"Maybe. I dunno."

Marcelle chuckled, "Well, I doubt he's going to find his next muse around here. Oh, no offense (Name)..."

"None taken..." you grumbled.

Although she was right, of course. You were indeed new to the company by six months, and you didn't believe that you were on your way to anything too prosperous. Your current position was the pinnacle of success for you, and there wasn't much room for promotions in the modeling industry, only a pay rise. You felt as if you had already sold half of your soul to Mr. De Vil to land a job there, and although you hated it, it made good money that you couldn't make anywhere else. You disliked your job, but you valued it and weren't planning on giving it up until _you_ had reached thirty — or whenever they felt was an appropriate time to let you retire to a kitchen. Conditions _always_ applying.

You stared at your reflection as Marcelle applied exfoliant to your face. You couldn't help but wonder where you would be and what you would be doing if you didn't sacrifice high calory foods and half of your wardrobe for your career. The possibilities weren't broad, you knew which one was likely. Your mother would be thrusting you at young men to seduce while giving you housewife lessons for when you would score a marriage with one of the young men you encountered. The other options were possible, too, but unfortunately, they were more centered around your wishful thinking, rather than high probability. In short, your job was only delaying the inevitable. Soon enough, your original prospects would catch up on you, and it would be back to learning how to roast a chicken and how to iron your father's shirts. Oh, how the world was your oyster!

"And what about the fuck up?"

"Oh, I don't know anything yet, but if that's the case, it was probably Mary, you know what she's like. With how disorganized she is, it's a miracle she's kept her job for this long. I think she'll be next to go."

"Speaking of people going, who did Mr. De Vil fire?" you questioned Marcelle.

"Bonnie, then Nicole," she sighed, applying exfoliant to your face as you finally opened your eyes.

"Oh."

Shame really. Bonnie was one of the nicer models that you worked with. She was hardly overweight and probably much skinner than you were. Last time you checked, there was nothing wrong with her. Yet, it seemed you and Mr. De Vil had very juxtaposing views. Though, as for Nicole, you were happy to see her go. She was rather unpleasant in terms of what came out of her mouth. It was one less bitch to ignore.

Marcelle and Lisa conversed while you tuned out and watched some of the other models enter the large dressing room following their photoshoots, giggling and chatting as they came through the door. Marcelle finished up with your facial cleansing and did your complimentary makeup. There was an unspoken rule that all of the female employees — particularly the models — were expected to follow. You were all expected to wear some makeup on the premises and look presentable. So, in your contract, if you came in wearing makeup, you would be given complimentary makeup redos following a photoshoot, fashion show, or vice versa. You thought it was a hassle, but you had to do it, so no one like your manager or Mr. De Vil (provided you were unlucky enough for him to see it) criticized you for 'dressing inappropriately.'

You flicked your eyes back to the mirror as soon as you saw some of the more unpleasant models enter. They were all chatting amongst themselves about God knows what. You were thankful that they mostly ignored you, but now and then, even you couldn't hide from their back-handed compliments and trash talk.

"Hey Lisa, can you help me get out of this dress?" Robin asked, walking over. You eyed her red dress through the mirror, with Mr. De Vil's comment returning to your mind. Usually, you would let this sort of stuff sail right over your head, but when the big boss says you look crap in a dress, it's kind of hard to ignore.

"Sure thing!" Lisa smiled, going over, and helping Robin get out of it. You wondered why Robin didn't bother to go to the dressing room first, but then you remembered how confident these girls were with their bodies. You were sure that some of the girls (like Robin, for example) just liked to strip half-naked in front of everyone else to show off what they had. Personally, you didn't see the point. You were all skinny, you were all pretty, and you all had two tits and an ass. Why show it off when you looked no different from everyone else?

"You're all done," Marcelle announced, putting the makeup away in the draws. As usual, you admired her work in the mirror, feeling satisfied.

"Thank you."

Marcelle hummed and walked off, getting out of there before any of the girls could flag her down to do their makeup.

You got up from the chair, adjusted your clothes, and checked the time. It was nearing five, which meant that you could go home (provided no one caught you on your way out).

You quickly left the changing room, receiving a few polite goodbyes from the other models on your way out. You returned them with a fake smile until you got out. As soon as you left the room and entered the corridor, you heard mutters arise and decided to walk even faster towards the elevator.

No doubt the conversation had turned to you. For some reason, they all thought that you were little virgin deer that thought she was getting places with an innocent yet sour façade. You didn't take it to heart. It was hard to when all their gossip was repetitive and based on vague assumptions.

You pressed the button and waited for the elevator to arrive. You stood silently, hoping that no one would come and wait with you and strike up a conversation. You just wanted to go home, and you had your daily fill of discussion for today.

Soon the elevator arrived, and someone got out while you went in. You pressed the 'G' button and waited for the doors to close and descend from the seventh floor to the ground floor.

On your way down, you gazed at your reflection in the infinite mirrors. The endless reflections of yourself stood there in boxes upon boxes of alternate but completely identical dimensions. At least, that's what you liked to think. It was fun to imagine your existence across multiple, never-ending worlds, all collected and shown through three mirrors closely compacted together to present this phenomenon. Only, it wasn't a phenomenon, and really you were just too creative. There were three mirrors in an elevator, and that's all there was to it.

You groaned as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor. You did your best not to show your exhaustion as Christine waltzed into the elevator. As soon as she saw you, she smiled brightly, but that was only because she wanted someone to talk to for the next minute, rather than being genuinely happy to be in your presence. Having someone to boast to about her job or just about anything to do with herself, brought her such joy. It didn't matter who it was, as long as they had ears and were too polite to tell her to fuck off.

"Going down?"

"Yeah."

"Phew! What a day I just had!" she sighed, exhausted.

_'Oh, please do elaborate.'_

"You know, I had to visit seven different rooms today? It was exhausting! And Mr. De Vil is so hard to keep up with!"

_'Walk faster then.'_

"Yup."

"Now, I just need my coffee! Are you leaving now?"

"Yeah."

"Ugh, you're so lucky you get to leave at five! I have to stay here until seven!"

_'What a shame.'_

"Oh no," you replied, giving her a look of forced pity.

"The job is worth it, though. I do value it a lot, and despite what some people may say, working under Mr. De Vil is a real privilege. I'm fortunate, and I appreciate that," she smiled.

You held back a scoff. Instead of appearing earnest and grateful, she just appeared self-righteous. She said that like you (and everyone else, for that matter) couldn't possibly begin to understand how valuable working under Mr. De Vil was. Maybe that was indeed the case, but nevertheless, you too valued your job. She was clearly too ignorant to think that other people valued theirs too and that she just floated above it all. Her absurdity was an almost beautiful display.

"I don't blame you, many would saw off an arm and a leg for your job. It's good that you value it," you replied as the doors opened, and you both exited the elevator.

"Ain't that the truth. Well, duty calls! Nice talking to you, (Name)," she smiled, giving you a small wave.

"Likewise," you nodded as you turned away to rush over to the front desk to sign out and hand in your ID before almost running to the exit.

As soon as you reached the spinning doors, you rushed out and began speed-walking down the sidewalk to get as far away from that building as possible. Once, you had almost been dragged back in by the ankles after your manager caught you a few steps away from the exit, claiming that she needed your help with something. Because you were a model, there was a strange stigma that all you ever did was stand in a room and look pretty. In essence, it wasn't a real job because you weren't running about chasing after deadlines or getting your hands dirty (not that that was an appropriate job for a woman anyway). So alas, you were often asked to help other people out in your quote-on-quote 'spare time.' Though, the ignorant bastards didn't understand that you arguably had more work than any of them, for you never really clocked out. Your job was to keep healthy and skinny, stay pretty in public and in the building and make sure you never stepped out of line, for your social reputation reflected the company's. You had seen several models do or say one bad thing during their own time, and come the following week, they were there for a total of one hour, only to leave later on and never walk through those front doors ever again. It really took full-time work to a whole new level. 'Not a real job' indeed.

It took approximately forty-five minutes for you to make your way home, for you stopped to grab a latte on your way home and took the London Underground from Hanover Square to Crouch End. Although it was a long trek of multiple trains, walking, and the odd bus ride, your job was worth the journey...in a way. Unfortunately, since they were so expensive, taxis were a special privilege that you reduced to occasions when it was pouring it down with Britain's infamous rain. Although you now made much more money than what you made as a waitress two years ago (now making roughly £43 an hour to be exact), it still wasn't enough for you to completely indulge yourself in. Not unless you wanted to end up with 10s left in your bank at the end of each month.

You let out a yawn, entering your warm house from the cold temperature outside. It was freezing cold, and even your trenchcoat, scarf, and hat couldn't keep you warm. You quickly removed them and hung them up, scurrying into the living room to stand near the fire. You shivered and placed your hands near it, desperately hoping to warm up.

You saw your mom poke her head out from the kitchen, holding a ladle. "Oh, you're back late!"

"I stopped to get a coffee," you replied, turning around to warm your bum and back.

"You could have just asked me to make you one."

"I like Betty's Avenue."

Your mother clicked her tongue, "' Course you do."

"What's for dinner?"

"I've made a big pot of leek and potato soup! I'm going to serve it in about ten minutes, which will give your dad enough time to get here. Go lay the table and let your brother know," she instructed, walking back over to the stove.

"Have you added any salt to the soup?" you asked, skeptically.

Your mom sighed, "No, I haven't added any salt. All it's got in it is leek, potato, and a few fresh herbs from the garden."

You nodded and began walking over to the dining room.

"Heavens above, you and your silly diets these days. You never used to be like this!" she called out, slightly irritated.

"I have to stick to the diet mom, you know that," you called back.

Your mom scoffed, "Still, I hate having to stick to making specific meals now! I don't see what's so wrong with a little salt and sugar now and then!"

You rolled your eyes and didn't respond. Your mother had always disapproved of your job but was slowly coming around to it. When she saw the salary and how 'pretty' you looked in all those dresses, she backed off a little. Not to mention, she was a closet fan of Cruell de Vil and his works, occasionally buying his products and pestering you to use your employee discount whenever she took you into town to go clothes shopping. However, your dad, on the other hand, couldn't be any less impressed. You believed that when he discovered the exact number of your wages, it really took a blow to his pride. Maybe he thought he was being replaced as the breadwinner? Well, whatever. It was your life and your job, and they would both have to deal with it.

You laid the table and jogged upstairs to your brother's room. You walked in to see him at his desk playing with his radio kit. He only had one, and somehow he was obsessed with it. You personally didn't see the appeal. It looked quite repetitive and boring just taking it apart and putting it back together again day-after-day only so he could listen to a man on the other end drone on about God knows what. You didn't see why he didn't just buy a regular pocket radio, or better yet, use the one in the living room. It was entirely pointless!

Your brother barely spared you a glance, keeping his eyes glued to the wall as the earpiece rested over his left ear. You rose an eyebrow at the ghost treatment and passive-aggressively cleared your throat.

"Tom, dinner's ready!" you announced, watching him turn his head to you, giving you the stink eye. "Don't give me that look. Turn that off and get downstairs," you scolded, turning around and leaving his room, hearing a loud groan follow.

You got back to the dining room to see your dad already sitting at the head of it while your mom placed the pot down on the table.

"Is your brother coming?"

"Yeah," you replied, sitting down to your dad's left while your mom sat opposite you. Soon enough, Thomas came down and flopped down on the seat next to your mother, sighing dramatically.

Your dad scoffed, "Sit up boy, you're not in school!"

Your brother sighed again and sat up straight.

"What's up with you tonight? You're in a right mood," your mom sighed, glancing at your brother as she served the soup to your dad.

"Nothing."

"Very well, then. Anyway, dear, how was work?"

"Same old," he simply replied, taking a sip of his beer.

"What about you (Name)?" she asked, moving to serve your brother.

"Not much, really. Had some photoshoots with Fred for three hours."

"Which Fred? Creepy Fred or Normal Fred?" she inquired, slightly amused.

"Creepy Fred. Normal Fred works in security," you clarified, rolling your eyes. You and your family had a lot of nicknames for the people you worked with since you complained about them so much. And of course, ever since he started pining after you, Fred was from then on known as 'Creepy Fred.'

"Oh," she nodded, now moving to serve herself.

"Oh wait, something did happen," you mentioned. "Mr. De Vil paid a visit while I was modeling."

"Oh, the infamous Mr. De Vil..." your mother began, a small smirk creeping onto her lips, as she was eager to know the details as she gave you your serving. "What happened?"

"He came in, reviewed some photos, fired a few girls, and then proceeded to comment on the dress I was wearing before marching back out the door," you shrugged, siping your soup.

Your dad clicked his tongue, "Don't listen to him, (Name). Don't let strangers bring you down."

Although your father didn't approve, he didn't agree with random men making comments towards you when they were neither a relative or a potential husband. Though, the fleeting support didn't last long.

"Though, having said that...maybe it's a sign that modeling isn't the right path for you," he shrugged while you frowned, immediately picking up on the subliminal message.

"And what's the alternative then, hm? Stay at home making beef stew, washing dishes, and listening to Woman's Hour on the radio as I mend my husband's socks? Thanks for the insightful prospect, but I'd rather decline," you resorted quietly scoffing.

Your dad frowned, "Now stop with the venomous tone, young lady. I'm merely saying that it's not very becoming of you to be in employment."

Your mother backed him up before you could open your mouth to respond. "If you're not planning to give it up now, at least use your time there to meet a nice gentleman. You never know, you might meet someone and decide to settle down; start a family," she smiled, trying to appeal to you despite taking your dad's side.

"I would consider it, but I'm under the impression that times are changing. Lots of women are in employment these days. I don't believe it would be useful for me to settle down and put my whole welfare in someone else's hands when in ten years or less, I'll be expected to stand on my own two feet. I do plan to get married someday but not so I can be someone's cute, little housewife," you clarified.

"(Name) sweetie, _please_...not at the table..." your mother begged with a sigh.

You sighed, shutting up and continuing to drink your soup. Following that, all conversation at the dinner table died, with only the clinking of spoons being the only sound to break the silence. Your dad appeared irritated by it and your mother uncomfortable while Thomas seemed completely unbothered by it. You, however, began to feel a bit guilty that you were the one that caused it.

Once you finished your soup, your mother cleared away the empty bowls, and briefly left the table to take them into the kitchen. Upon returning, she came back with three clean bowls and a homemade raspberry trifle. Seeing it made your mouth water, and having it placed in the middle of the table didn't help at all, for you were met with its sweet aroma.

How long had it been since you had eaten your mom's homemade trifle?

A year? Two years?

As usual, the appearance of the pudding was your cue to leave. It was your mother's daily attempt to entice you into betraying your strict diet so every day it took a will of titanium to walk away from the beautifully decorated Victoria sponges, Merlot-poached pears, apple pies, blackberry cheesecakes, and even her dreaded, secret weapon...the chocolate mousses.

"Excuse me," you uttered, standing up and leaving the table. You could feel their eyes on you as you left the dining room. As soon as you reached the stairs in the hall, they began speaking once more.

"What absolute tosh! We need to straighten her out," your dad announced.

"It's that friend of hers — you know, the one that dresses like a tart! She's been filling her head with all that feminist propaganda! You need to talk to her (Father), she's still a young girl. She's very easily influenced!" your mom warned.

You scoffed at their words. 'Young girl' your ass! You were twenty-one-years-old! You were hardly easily influenced like the little girl that they deluded themselves into thinking that you still were. If they knew you at all, they would see that you could form your own opinions and stick to them!

You blocked out their voices that slowly increased in volume with every response. As soon as you got to your room, you kicked off your heels and collapsed down onto your bed, staring at familiar the cream wall dotted with pastel pink roses that you got very sick of looking at.

You sighed through your nose and closed your eyes, feeling the usual exhaustion that you got following a regular day at work and strained sanity.

Within the next twenty minutes, you felt yourself slowly slipping into a light slumber, ignoring the sounds of the argument downstairs and your brother's hurried footsteps up to his room.

* * *

_**Check my[Tumblr](https://yandereswithknives.tumblr.com/) for updates!** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N (February, 14th 2020): Thanks for reading this chapter! I've been working on this for a while and was reluctant to publish it, but then I just thought 'oh what the heck' and published it. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know what you guys think and whether I should continue this fanfic. I'll let you guys know if I'm going to publish the next chapter on my Tumblr account! If you have any questions, just leave a comment after checking the introduction since it's there to answer general questions and clear things up. If you are confused about the time this chapter takes place and any other context, check the introduction since I gave a brief summery there. If you are still confused about something, like I said, leave a comment and I'll get back to you as soon as possible!
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day! This is my gift to y'all! ❤️


	3. Chapter 2: Home Is Where the Heart Is

** **

**Chapter 2: Home Is Where the Heart Is **

* * *

"Thanks for inviting me out today. It's been a while since I've been able to see you."

"It's no problem. I felt like I needed to see you so we could catch up," you responded, smiling up at Monica. She returned it wholeheartedly with a giant beam that caught the attention of some of the other patrons in the café.

Monica, your best friend from middle school. She was a bit older than you, but you two became best friends despite her being a year older than you. Back when you were teenagers, she was a tall blond girl with a lot of acne, an unflattering pair of braces, and glasses. Suffice it to say, she had a rough six years, but now at 22 going on 23, she had gotten past that awkward stage and had her glow up. She was still tall and still had glasses, but now she was tall, had glasses, and was hot.

Sometimes you wished you were her. Her life seemed so exciting and carefree. Her life was a giant festival with loud music, balloons, and confetti in comparison to your glorified run-of-the-mill dress-up brigade. Your job seemed exciting and glamorous, but it got old very quickly after the first month. How could a job involving jumping in and out if skirts and dresses being so exhausting? You had no idea; it was a phenomenon.

Monica's job wasn't too interesting, but it was her voluntary work that put her in the spotlight. She was a campaigner for the feminist movement. When she was out giving out flyers or just merely marching through the street with the other women, she gave statements by wearing provocative or men's clothing. The men's dress was a statement to say that she could do anything a man could and that there should be more unisex clothing. The provocative outfits were a middle-finger statement to the male gaze and the double standard against the idea that women should be labeled for wanting to date, or have sex multiple men or something like that. You encouraged her enthusiasm and boldness, but sometimes her feminism stuff confused you. You agreed with the liberal feminist ideologies for gender equality, but more often than not, you needed her to explain what she was trying to say when she wore certain clothing or held up signs that said stuff like 'I can, I want to, and I SHOULD!' A lot of her statements tended to be interpretational.

Monica was very passionate about her feminism and often tried to convince you to come along to her protests and marches and to meet her feminist friends, but you always declined. You were indeed curious to experience it, but you weren't as outspoken and extroverted Monica. You weren't sure if House of DeVil would keep you on since you weren't convinced they would approve of being associated with feminist protesters. You reflected the company 24/7, so whatever you did in public had to be regulated. Not to mention, your dad would put you under house arrest if he ever caught word that you were quote-on-quote 'indecently parading around London with that tarty feminist friend.'

"Definitely. I feel like we haven't seen each other in ages," she smiled, taking a sip of her mocha.

"How's work?"

"Eh, same old. My new boss is a sexist swine and keeps speaking to me in this really... patronizing tone," she cringed, rolling her blue eyes.

You scoffed, "Join the club."

"And I'm underpaid! I have the exact same job as Richard, but he earns like a grand more than me. I mean, fuck! I hate these fucking people!" she growled, running her hands through her hair in frustration. You gave her a sympathetic frown as she looked back up. "It's times like these that make me wonder if I even want a job..."

"I get what you mean. Unfortunately, your only alternatives are to find a job with lower pay or get married to a rich guy and kill him in his sleep," you shrugged.

Monica snorted and fell into a fit of giggles. "Now _there's_ a thought!"

"Shouldn't be too hard. We live in London, you're beautiful...and you don't live on a farm anymore, so you don't have to bail on your life and try your luck in someone else's!" you winked.

"Mmmmm...so many rich blokes to choose from. Oh, maybe Cruell de Vil might be a good candidate," she mused, wiggling her eyebrows, "you willing to introduce me?"

You chuckled, "You make it sound like we're best friends."

"Well, maybe not that, but you work for him, right?" she teased.

"Believe it or not, barely any of us are formally acquainted with him. He just writes our cheques from behind a pair of red doors," you shrugged before your look of contemplation morphed into a smirk "...but I like your strategy."

Monica blew a raspberry. "Gutted. He should be on friendlier terms with his employees."

"I think he just likes to float above it all. Though, if you do want to make connections, I'll introduce you to his PA, and you will have to take it from there."

"Nah, I'm just kidding. Though, it's a nice thought. It would be great for our campaign. Getting some rich blokes to speak on behalf of us would be good, spreads the message more," she smiled.

"Do you ever plan to settle down when you're older?"

"Of course! Just because I'm campaigning for equal rights, it doesn't mean I don't have plans to get married later on and maybe start a family. Have your parents been bringing this up with you again?" she frowned sympathetically.

"My mom half likes my job and is coming around to it, but my dad can't stand it. I can tell the main reason they don't want me working is that they think I'm biting off more than I can chew. My mom worked in a shop when she was younger but immediately retired once she got engaged to my dad. I suppose my mom is trying to rush me into a relationship because she's scared that my appearance will deteriorate."

"That's so stupid. You can get married whenever you want to, sweetie! The guy you marry shouldn't care what you look like. Ugh, if I only I were a man, I'd marry you right now, warts an' all," she grinned.

"Thanks, Monica, I'd marry you too," you laughed.

"Say, did you cut your hair?"

"Yeah, a little. It was getting too long, and split ends were starting to form, so I just told the hairdresser to take it up by a few inches and layer it."

"Well, I won't deny that I miss your old hair, but nonetheless, it looks nice!" Monica beamed. "I've been thinking it's time for a change too. How about a bob?"

Your face scrunched up at the thought. Monica bust out laughing at your face. You watched her with a small smile as she tried to catch her breath, gaining the attention of some of the surrounding customers.

"Okay, guess I won't go with that then," she snickered.

"I like your long hair, but if you're really going to go through with it just..."

"...Don't get a bob?" she finished with a lighthearted chuckle.

"Uh...yeah..." you confirmed with an awkward smile. "Sorry...but you know how we all have that one hairdo that we can never pull off? That's yours."

"Yeah, I suppose it is. I'm in one of those times of my life right now. You know when you get to the point where you just want to cut off all of your hair because you're done with everything and everyone around you? That's me right now."

"I don't think a haircut is going to solve that," you chuckled, taking a sip of your coffee.

"Oh, I know it won't. I just feel like I need to change my appearance somehow. It's long overdue."

"Why not buy some new makeup? Or some new clothes?" you questioned.

"Sweetie, I'm poor," she chuckled, "though I wouldn't mind if you took me out shopping for some House of DeVil," she winked.

"Why is everyone after my employee discount...?" you muttered to yourself. "Anyway, discount or not, everything we sell is still heart-breakingly expensive. Notice how I don't own any of their clothes, I'd be dirt poor by purchasing just one coat. Have you seen how much it costs just to buy a belt? Never thought I would say this, but you'd be saving money by shopping at Gucci or Burberry."

"Whoo, (Name). I would have thought they would have thrust the brand onto you, being a model and all."

"No, that only goes for Esmé and some of the other 'first-string' models," you replied, rolling your eyes.

"Oh well, that's more of a pro than a con, I would say. You don't have to worry about being forced to shop for things that you can't afford."

"Of course. Surely you don't think I'm unhappy as I am now, do you?" you chuckled, finishing your coffee.

"Oh no! You just sounded a little disheartened there for a second," she smiled comfortingly.

You shook your head. "No. I'm extremely happy. Although I both love and hate my job, I'm fortunate. It's been a bit of an ego boost, you know? Interviewing for a well-paid job and getting accepted because they think you're pretty enough to represent their brand."

"Why do you still sound so surprised about that? You're gorgeous, sweetie!" Monica cried.

You bashfully chuckled, "Thank you."

"Though, you sure you don't want a promotion? I'm sure if you work hard enough, you'll gain the attention of your manager."

You mulled it over for a second. You had indeed thought about trying to aim for a position as one of the 'front cover' models that would usually appear on most billboards, in the first few pages of the monthly magazines or, as the phrase suggested, on the front cover. It was a sociolect term that circled the building among the employees to refer to the big-name models in the business. It was slightly derogatory but wasn't always used in that context. Those models got higher pay and gained the most attention from the public.

You imagined yourself in that situation, and it made you furrow your eyebrows. You couldn't see it working out for you. Not only would you have to work an extra hour, but you would also have more attention put on you. That was a double-edged sword at the end of the day. You weren't sure you would be able to put up with the pressure of it all.

"No, it wouldn't be the right path for me. It would be a step-up that I wouldn't be able to step-down from if I ever had second thoughts. Besides, I wouldn't ever have a life of privacy ever again from then on. You have to be a certain type of person to live with that much fame," you explained with a shrug.

"You say that like you're not already famous," Monica mentioned with a small frown.

"Oh, I am. Don't get me wrong; I'm not putting myself down, and I do not deny that I'm in the fame bracket too. I realize that, and I have had my fair share of people come up to me now and then, but I'm no one groundbreaking. Give it ten years, and no one will recognize me. As much as I value this job and want it to last until I retire, I don't want it to follow me around wherever I go after I take my leave."

"I see what you mean now. After you secure a spot high up in the food chain in a big conglomerate, you rarely leave it behind completely," she mused. Monica then looked down at your empty cup after finishing her coffee. "You done?"

"Yep. Do you want to go now?"

"Yeah, let's go."

You and Monica then left Betty's Avenue after leaving your cups behind. You left the tearoom and stepped out into the bustling street of Hanover Square. You inhaled the outside air and felt the cold wind run through your hair and sweep past your cheeks, tinting them pink. You adjusted your grey scarf and cream trenchcoat, turning to glance at Monica as she adjusted her glasses and beret and sent you a smile.

"So, where to now? We only have half an hour left until I need to pick up my sister from school."

"Well, my mom asked me to grab a few groceries, and my dad's newspaper, so is it okay if we head over to Marcey's before we catch the train?"

"Sure thing!"

✤♚✤

"Pfft, the prices here are ridiculous," Monica sighed, looking at the fruit stacked into baskets. We should have gone to Waitrose or Morrison's instead," she sighed.

"Yeah, I think you're right. Oh well, it can't be helped now," you shrugged, putting the last of the groceries in a paper bag.

"The quality is good here, but they do take advantage of being in Hanover Square."

You didn't respond to her remark and walked over to the newspaper and magazine rack and started scouring for a copy of The Times. Monica trailed after you and scanned the magazine rack halfheartedly. You turned in her direction when you heard her let out a small hum.

She had picked up a copy of House of DeVil and was scanning the pages. You rolled your eyes at her antics and approached her to see what had caught her interest.

You caught sight of the front cover and raised an eyebrow at the unusual sight of Mr. De Vil on the front. It was uncommon to see him on the front of the monthly magazines. Usually, you would be met with a full shot of Esmé or one of the other popular models.

You scanned the page Monica was looking at and deadpanned when she had stopped on a page with you on it. In the photo, you were wearing a woolen plaid skirt, black tights and leather heels, a white blouse, and a thick brown trenchcoat while holding a black leather handbag. You recognized the outfit immediately. That particular photo was taken a few months ago. It seemed that the picture had finally been handpicked, printed, and included in this month's issue.

You felt a small wave of pride and excitement as you saw the photo. Sometimes you wouldn't make it into the final draft of the magazine. It would occasionally happen to everybody (unfortunately some more than others), but you tried not to get to bummed out about it. It was just business, after all.

"That's the Winter line. The clothes are much thicker, and that one is aimed at semi-formal working women," you pointed out. It was a bit stupid, in your opinion. Didn't they know that most women with semi-formal jobs barely earned— oh wait, they expected their husbands to pay for them. Right.

"It's nice! If I had enough money to afford this stuff, I would definitely wear this! You really suit it!" she smiled.

You went against pointing out that suiting the outfits was kind of the whole point. You uttered a 'thank you' and moved your eyes to the price list. If you hadn't been used to House of DeVil's ridiculously high prices, you would have choked on air. £80 for the skirt, £60 for the blouse, £15 for the tights, £150 for the heels, £279 for the leather handbag and £390 for the coat. Altogether it came to £974, which was a conservative price compared to other outfits. And that price wasn't even including VAT! (House of DeVil never included the VAT in the prices featured in the magazines, as it was a dirty marketing technique.)

Monica flipped back to the front page with Mr. De Vil on the front. She scanned the writing down either side, advertising sales, new lines, fashion tips, fashion articles, and all of the other generic things the magazines included.

"God, how on earth does your boss balance all of this work and still have time to pose in front of a camera? It must be exhausting and impossible," she mused.

"Because he's Cruell de Vil, he somehow makes the impossible possible," you shrugged, picking up a copy of The Times. "Got it. Let's head over to the till."

✤♚✤

After you and Monica parted ways after taking the underground back to Crouch End, you returned home with the groceries and your more personal shopping in hand.

As soon as you stepped through the front door, your foot made contact with the mail on the floor after it got pushed through the letterbox. You bent down and picked it up after hanging up your coat, hat, and scarf.

Walking into the kitchen, you flicked through the four letters and your mom's issue of House of DeVil. You looked down, finding it funny how you were just looking at that same magazine an hour ago, and now here it was at your doorstep. You pulled out your bank statement and left the rest of the letters on the table with the groceries as they were all addressed to your dad. You looked up to see your mom enter the kitchen.

"Oh, is that the mail?" she asked, walking over.

"Yeah. Your issue has arrived, by the way."

"Oh goodie!" your mom grinned, reaching over and taking it from you. You watched her eye the front cover before opening it to the first page.

Since you worked at the House, you naturally got a free complimentary issue delivered to your doorstep every month. They always got released on the last Friday of the month and usually reached your house the following day. Your mom soon became a fan once they suddenly started showing up in the mail, and since she had nothing else to read, she let herself get hooked. It was a double-edged sword since, on the one hand, she became a bit more open-minded about your job, but on the other, you didn't like having your job follow you into your personal life anymore than it already had. These days it felt like it was all that ever came up in your conversations and all you ever talked about (and not by choice), which was probably because both of those notions were true. Sometimes it was like it defined your whole personality.

"Oh, these clothes are lovely (Name)! Are you in this one?"

Every month she asked that exact question, and every time you would flatly respond to her interrogative with the same line: "Read it, and then you'll know."

You turned away to place the rest of your bags on the floor and head over to the fridge. You listened to your mom's muttering and quiet 'oohs' and 'ahhs' as she eagerly flicked through each page. You rolled your eyes and gathered some cucumber carrots and fruit and chopping them up to be blended into a smoothie.

You heard your brother come down the stairs with his loud, elephant footsteps. You dumped all of the ingredients into the blender and glanced at him with a weary expression as he marched past you to raid the fridge. You scoffed when he pulled out a jam doughnut.

"Tom, no. Your dentist said to lay off the sugar," you frowned. Tom just turned to you with a glare and stubbornly took a massive bite out of it. You rolled your eyes as he briskly turned away and marched into the living room to turn on the radio.

You turned back to the blender and dumped some almonds and yogurt in and switched it on. A second passed until you heard your brother yell from the living room.

"(Name)! Turn off the bloody blender; I'm trying to listen to the radio!"

"Thomas, language!" your mother scolded, sitting down at the table to continue flicking through her magazine.

You didn't respond to his voice, and only passive-aggressively increased the speed from 2 to 4, making the blender whir even louder. You could just barely hear Thomas' curses and approaching footsteps over the sound of the blender. You waited until he reached you and abruptly turned it off, paying him no mind as you poured the smoothie into a glass. You heard him scoff and march back into the living room, quickly dismissing the idea to yell at you or switch the blender off himself.

You walked through the living room and over to the staircase. You preferred the solace of your bedroom to the mind-numbing prattle of the radio that Tom was so insistent on playing in the living room. It really made you wonder why he owned that crystal radio up in his bedroom when he was just going to come downstairs and listen to the living room radio anyway.

_"...And tonight's forecast is due for heavy sleet and rain which will eventually fade into snow around eleven o'clock, which will continue into tomorrow, calling for heavy flurries of snow coming in from the northwest, carrying on through the week. Temperatures are expected to drop to a low as minus ten degrees celsius later tonight and then come to around minus six degrees at around five a.m. tomorrow. As we progress into Monday..."_

As you made your way past your brother, you briefly stopped to sigh at him. He stared off at the wall, listening intently with a look of pure fascination as if the dry drivel of the weather man's voice were gospel teachings in a Christian Church.

"Why are you so obsessed with that damn radio?" you sighed.

"Because it's splendid!" he resorted, shooting you an offended glare.

You rolled your eyes. "Goodluck getting a girlfriend at this rate."

"Pfft, what would you know about _women_?" he snorted, smirking.

"Nothing, obviously. Considering that I am of the opposite sex and surrounded by individuals of the same gender every day, which is more than you'll ever see in your lifetime, I am, of course...completely clueless," you dryly remarked, swiftly turning around and heading up the stairs, ignoring your younger brother's low mutterings.

Once you got back to your room, you changed into your house clothes and drank your smoothie, and continued reading your copy of The Sorrows of Satan. For a short while, everything was silent, minus the muffled speech coming from the radio downstairs. However, your temporary peace was shattered when you heard your mother calling your name as she made her way up the stairs.

You sighed, bookmarking your place and putting your book down, disgruntled that you had only made it through two pages until someone was making themself known and chasing after your attention.

"(Name)!" your mother beamed, rushing into your room and sitting down on your bed. "Oh, you look so lovely in this outfit! I've recently been thinking that you should use your job to your advantage a little. You see, there's a nice couple who have moved in next door and they have a son who works in—"

"No."

"What? You haven't even let me finish!" she cried, looking upset. "Anyway, they have a son who is a physician—"

"Mom, I'm not interested," you sighed, sitting up.

"(Name), I'm just trying to help you."

"I appreciate the thought, but I'm not interested. I'll find someone in my own time. But there are more important things in my life right now."

Your mother sighed and reached over, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. "(Name), I know what you're trying to do. I was the same when I was your age. You can't just run away from your responsibilities. It's not fair; I know...but there's nothing we can do about it."

"You don't want me working?"

"I'm okay with it. As much as modeling annoys you, I know working makes you happy, and you earn good money. Not to mention, you always look so beautiful when I see you in all those outfits. Look, just look at how pretty you are," she smiled, holding up the magazine for you to see. You gazed down on the same page you were looking at earlier. You were gazing away from the camera with a serious expression on your face. If you weren't paying attention, you would hardly recognize yourself in all those fancy clothes. "It's just that your father doesn't like it, and I don't want you to give up your best chance of finding a husband now and then regret it later on. You won't stay young forever."

"Right, so my chances of ever getting a decent husband die the moment I reach thirty..."

" _Thirty_? Where on earth did you hear something like that?" she asked, confused and amused.

"Nowhere...nevermind," you shook it off and dismissing the words that slipped out.

"Well, I wouldn't say your chances die there. I know lots of women who have gotten married at thirty and later. However, I just think now that you're young and beautiful, you are at the prime age to get the best of the best. I wouldn't be hassling you if I didn't think you could find a nice, handsome man with a good job to support you," she smiled, affectionately rubbing your shoulder.

"How old were you when you married dad?" you asked, gazing down at the rose-patterned, pastel pink bedsheets.

"Ooh..." your mother pondered, looking up contemplatively, "I'd say about twenty-four? I've already told you the story of how we met in Harrogate, but I met him when I was around twenty-two and married him about two years later, so yes, twenty-four. Gosh, that feels so long ago now. Don't tell him that I had to think so hard about that one; he'd kill me," she chuckled.

 _'So young...'_ you thought, chewing the inside of your cheek apprehensively, as you compared your mom's age to yours. You were three years away from that. Was she expecting you to get married at twenty-four too? And to someone, you had only known for two years? Possibly even less? The daunting reality made you feel nauseous.

"At least think it over for now. I won't be mad if you decide to get married later on, but I just want you to start thinking about your future. You'll need a nice man who can financially support you and take care of you. You'll need somewhere to live. Your father and I won't be around forever."

"I can't just buy my own house? I'm ready to move out, mom," you responded flatly. You looked up to meet her gaze when she let out a sigh.

"(Name)...the deal was that you could continue working as long as you contribute some of your wages and live here until you're married."

"It's a strange agreement considering I can buy my own house and pay all my bills with the money I earn. There's no use in me living here when I'm just another mouth to feed—"

"You and I both know you can't take care of yourself on your own," she replied sternly, standing up.

You didn't respond to her, being all too familiar with that tone. It meant that there was no use arguing, and that was the end of the conversation. You were fuming, but you held it back.

"Dinner will be ready in a few hours; I'll give you a shout when it's ready," she announced, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her.

Sighing, you picked up your book again in an attempt to distract yourself from the conversation that just transpired. You wanted to hit something but decided against it. Punching pillows never seemed to do you any good. Too bad just about everything else in your room was breakable and that your walls were paper-thin to the point that you could hear a pin drop from downstairs.

There was no use getting angry anyway. It would just cause disruption and even more household tension that you already had enough of. If only you could just move out already. Everyone's problems would be solved that way. The way you lived in your parents' house was getting to the point where it both embarrassed you and made the whole atmosphere really heavy. You were too old to be living here, and you all knew it. The problem was, everyone refused to acknowledge it outwardly.

You wondered if many other girls your age were still living with their parents. And if they were, did their permanent forced residence in their house make it uncomfortable for everyone else living there? Probably not, you were sure this was just a thing that was exclusive to your family.

You knew the real reason why you were still living there. It wasn't because you were incapable of taking care of yourself. It was just your mother's empty nest syndrome. You appreciated that she loved you enough not to want to let you go, but at the end of the day, it was just a long-term result of her helicopter parenting and her reluctance to let go. It was a shame that no one in your family had the resolve to acknowledge that as well. Not even you, the person it affected the most.

✤♚✤

Rain pattered down onto the windows and the roof in the dark evening. The soft hissing of boiling water coming from the kitchen could be heard as your mother made the usual evening tea. You were sat on the sofa in your living room near the electric fireplace, next to your dad, while your Saint Bernard, Diego, lay near your feet, dozing near the fire. Your brother was over by the window smudging up the glass, with his sweaty hands and warm breath. He looked rather enraptured by what was going on outside in your garden.

"Oi, dad, there's a peeping Tom outside!"

"For the last time, boy, it's just Greg!" your dad called from the living room with a tired sigh.

"I can't believe you can use that expression with a straight face," you chimed in, looking up from your book and gazing over at Thomas as he stared down your poor neighbor as he went about his business.

"Cor, what a plonker!" he laughed, ignoring your remark. "He's out there in the sleet and rain, trying to fix his generator!"

"Ugh, get away from the window, you look like the peeping Tom from over here."

" _Yes, mom_..." he muttered, reluctantly dragging himself away from the window to flop down on the sofa next to the radio. "What's the time, dad?"

Your father barely spared a look at his watch before replying to your brother's question. "No different from when you asked me five minutes ago."

"Is it half eight yet?"

"No," you grunted, getting tired of your brother's annoying repetitive questions.

"Wasn't talking to you."

"Bite me."

"Don't be rude to your sister," your father scolded, flipping the page in his newspaper. You mentally thanked your dad for sticking up for you. Whenever you fetched his paper, he would usually be less hard on you for the rest of the day.

You found it funny how you and your brother's relationship hadn't changed in the slightest. In truth, no time had passed since your younger days, where you and he would argue over everything. Now, you were an adult at 21, and he was a 13. You were both at ages where you should have put the childish sibling feud behind you, but you both couldn't as you both were extremely good at irritating the other to the point of borderline insanity.

On the one hand, it was nice to see that things never changed. Although, on the other, you would always hear a voice in the back of your head telling you to grow up already.

"Oh Tom, you look so restless. Calm down; you won't miss it," your mother reassured, entering the living room with a tray of freshly made Yorkshire tea and home-made ginger snap biscuits.

You put your book down so you could drink your tea as your mother placed the tray on the coffee table in front of you. She began preparing the cups and biscuits, knowing off by heart how everyone took their tea. One sugar with whole milk and no biscuit for your dad, two sugars with semi-skinned milk and one biscuit for your mother, four sugars with whole milk, and two biscuits for your brother, and no sugar with almond milk and _absolutely no biscuits_ for you.

"Ugh, can't I please just put Radio 4 on? Sometimes they start early!" Tom whined, despite knowing the agreement. He could listen to his favorite radio program for the hour it was on as long as you and your dad could read in silence before it started. You preferred the idea of just reading up in your room, but it went against one of the three rules in your house. You all had to come to the living room for 'family time' on weekend evenings. So there was no avoiding Tom's stupid radio chatter this time. You just had to lump it and hope you could block out the boring conversations between a group of middle-aged men.

"By like 3.08 seconds..." you scoffed, impatiently watching your mom prepare your dad's tea first, knowing you would get yours last, as per usual.

"Shut up."

"Thomas..." your dad scolded, shooting him a warning glare from over the top of his newspaper. Tom innocently looked away as your mom handed your dad his cup. "Thank you, darling."

There was silence for a while as your mom served out her cup, then Tom's and finally yours. You made sure she didn't add any sugar or any full cream milk before accepting it.

"So, how was everyone's day today?" your mother asked, starting the conversation. "Did you have much homework today Tom?"

"No. Just maths and DT," he shrugged, biting his thumbnail. Your mother nodded and turned her attention to you with a smile before looking over at your father.

"(Name) was in this month's magazine (Father). Aren't you proud of her?" she questioned with a grin and a slight tilt of her head.

Your father nodded, barely looking up from his newspaper. "Oh, yes."

"I know I said this earlier, but you looked lovely!"

She sure was in a good mood.

"Why do you always say this? All she does is pose in her knickers," Tom remarked, staring up at the ceiling, looking bored.

You gave him your coldest warning glare while your mother clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Oh, she doesn't do that, don't be so horrible! You don't do that, do you (Name)?"

"No."

Bit of a lie. It was rare that you had to pose in lingerie. You tried to avoid it when possible. Luckily, your mom didn't know about it; otherwise, she would have a fit. You wanted her to be oblivious for as long as possible. All of the more provocative photos of you had never made the final cut, so your mom had never seen them in the magazines. When she questioned you about the other girls wearing them, you told her a half-truth and that most of the more well-known models wore the lingerie, and you had never spoken of it again. However, Tom, on the other hand, knew about it when you had oh-so-regretfully told him one evening, and he had decided never to let you live it down. You had made him promise not to tell mom, but it seems that promise was hanging on a thread in front of you now.

Thankfully, it seemed like Tom wasn't going to go as far as to convince her otherwise as he stopped talking after that. Maybe he knew that you would pour your tea over his precious radios...

"Speaking of which, how do you feel about going shopping soon (Name)?"

"When?" you asked, taking a sip of your tea.

"Whenever you're free," she smiled.

You knew what this meant. You would be using your employee discount to help your mother buy a new coat or something. If it weren't for the fact you got 30% off anything at the store, your mother wouldn't be able to afford what the sold. And by 'afford,' you meant 'barely scrape the mark to buy one or maybe two things.' And it wasn't like you could just hand her your employee discount card or anything either. You had to physically be with her while she was there as of the new rules. This was because everyone who had a job at House of DeVil (and many other high-end retailers like it), lent their cards out to just about everyone they knew. So to solve this issue, the new rule was that you had to prove you were said employee while at the checkout, otherwise forget it!

"Sure."

"Great! Next Saturday, then? We can go out for lunch afterward!"

"Okay."

Your mother nodded, "It's settled then."

"It's time!" your brother exclaimed looking away from the clock on the mantel, scrambling over to the radio and switching it on, immediately turning the dial and flipping to BBC Radio 4.

_"...And that will be it this evening from the drama Who Killed Who? Next up, we have Britain's Top Topic with Michael Ross...enjoy."_

"God, I love Michael Ross! Did you know he's been doing this show for 15 years? His dad also owns a button factory for the armed forces!" Tom grinned.

"Fascinating..." you muttered.

The program began to play, withe the presenting welcoming the listeners to the program. You picked up your book again. You would try and do some reading as the radio played, though you were rarely able to read when there were things like too much talking or the TV playing in the background. If not, then you might as well go to bed early.

 _"So what is the hot topic in Britain right now? I'll be talking to three people in the studio today with us. Our three guests today are MP Jack Hammon, Professor David Adam of Civil and Environmental Engineering from Cambridge University, and Esmé Boutroux from House of DeVil. I wish them a warm welcome; we're all delighted to have you all on the show!"_ the man spoke, introducing everyone to the show. Tom listened intently, much like he had done earlier that day. _"So, we'll be starting off with the questions swirling the British fashion houses and big magazine publishers. Esmé is here from the fashion house and magazine publisher House of Devil owned by CEO, Malevolo de Vil. There are a lot of questions surrounding the way fashion houses are run — House of DeVil being one of the companies in question. Here to shed some light on the topic, is model Esmé Boutroux. Esmé sweetie, it's such a treat to have you here. We don't get many women on the show, but by Jove, we should; you're even lovelier in person!"_

You looked up from your book to listen to the radio — what a coincidence. Esmé was on Tom's favorite radio program. Would she be announcing her leave?

 _"You flatter me, Michael,"_ Esmé laughed.

 _"Let me kiss that pretty face, we're so, so thrilled to have you here! Mwah!"_ Michael exclaimed, kissing Esmé on the cheek as she laughed happily.

_"Glad to be here, thank you for having me!"_

_"Anytime, sweetie, anytime! So, to start off with the obvious question, what is it that inspired you to work for House of DeVil?"_

"Ugh, they've got the boring speakers on here! Why couldn't they do this girl last? I want to hear from the men!" Tom whined. "Isn't she from where you work (Name)?"

"Shush," you scolded, listening to Esmé.

 _"Well, I started working for House of DeVil about eleven years ago. I began as just a regular model, but it wasn't long until I was introduced to Cruell de Vil, the editor-in-chief and creative director during one of our Summer fashion shows here. Following that, we became quite close. He would often ask me to try on his first samples and we would attend parties together. I attended more fashion shows in so many foreign cities...Paris, Rome, Milan, Vienna, New York, Florence...so many beautiful places I've had the privilege of visiting. And my career has been solely modeling for these past years. I'm very grateful to have taken part in showcasing some of Cruell's best works over the years, and I hope to continue to do so,"_ she explained, with the smile clear in her tone. _  
_

Okay, so maybe she wasn't announcing it. Or she wasn't leaving after all? Perhaps not from the sound of it...

 _"And you're Cruell de Vil's current muse, is that correct?"_ Ross inquired. _  
_

_"That's correct."_

_"Wow, Esmé, that's impressive. I've heard you won quite a lot of awards along with De Vil as well. You two just go above and beyond!"_

_"Yeah, working with him is amazing. He truly is an extraordinary man and business partner."_

_"I bet. So, how exactly does a company sustain itself as both a fashion house and a magazine publisher? We've recently been seeing a shift to fashion houses now publishing their own magazines featuring their own lines. This has started in London and is now seeping into the rest of Europe. House of DeVil became a magazine publisher around six years ago and appears to be kicking off a trend with a few other fashion houses like Heaven's Avenue and Roses Are Red considering this idea. Where did this unorthodox idea come from? And why does House of DeVil do it so well? Not to mention...where on earth did the funding come from?"_

_"Well, that's quite a complicated topic, but I'll try to shed some light on it to the best of my ability. House of DeVil decided to become a magazine publisher after Cruell de Vil proposed the idea in '57. The funding came from a bunch of House of DeVil's close investors and, of course, the De Vil family. Now, funding for the magazine publishing industry obviously comes from the magazines themselves while the fashion house itself makes money from the products we sell. Occasionally, some money from the fashion house gets poured into the magazine production, but in general terms, that's about all there is to it. As for why we do it so well, I, unfortunately, can't say for sure as I'm not part of the marketing team obviously,"_ she laughed while the three other men laughed along with her. _"Though I truly believe that Cruell is the cause of that. As he proposed the idea, he took it upon himself to become the editor-in-chief after already being the creative director. I mean, have you ever seen anybody work that hard? It was shocking!"_

_"Yes, it caused quite a buzz in 1959. Are you sure he's not a workaholic?"_

Esmé laughed, _"I wouldn't say that! But after working with him for so many years, I've come to learn this. Cruell de Vil is someone who pays very close attention to detail. Nothing is ever insignificant to him, and he never settles for anything that is to a poor standard. He has a very keen eye for talent and knows exactly what he wants when he sees it."_

_"How so?"_

_"Well...when looking at a dress, he sees all these different things that people like you, and I wouldn't look twice at! He looks at the color, and sees sangria not red. He checks the material of the buttons that sewed on, he judges the way the jacket goes with the skirt, he checks to see if the model's appearance clashes with the outfit...it's crazy how much he pays attention to. He really is at the top of his game, and he runs a tight ship with an iron fist. He has changed my work ethic so much, and not only that, meeting him and working with him has changed my whole view on the fashion industry and has motivated me to aim higher. I owe him so much, and I hope that I have been able to repay his generosity by working as his muse."_

_'She's talking in past tense...'_ you noted, staring at the leather radio across the room. _'She also talks about him like he's a demi-god. Yeah, he's a good designer and businessman but we all know he's not_ that _amazing.'_

 _"I bet Cruell de Vil is very grateful for all that you have done. I know I sure would be!"_ Ross remarked with joviality.

 _"I second that!"_ one of the other men chimed in.

Esmé giggled, _"Thank you!"_

_"So, why do you think these trends came about, Esmé?"_

_"It's a brilliant inventment idea, although a bold one. It can be quite a risk if done in the incorrect circumstances, as it is enough to put a company in debt. If there are any other fashion houses out there considering following in our footsteps, by all means, do so, but just be very careful. Definitely hire an editor-in-chief to handle the work since I, unfortunately, don't think there are many Cruell de Vils in the world!"_ she laughed again, as the other three men laughed along with her.

 _"Yes, I highly doubt that! Can't imagine many men in Europe and America are daring enough to take on two jobs!"_ Ross laughed. _"So for another question, this is more personal to you and many other young girls in the modeling industry. What are the requirements to get a job as a model? I imagine it's more than just you women being pretty!"_

 _'Women? There are so many male models too, why is he just focusing on women in general?'_ you thought, furrowing your eyebrows and finishing your tea.

 _"Yes, Michael, it sure is. But when going for an interview, you have to have the right dietary requirements and personality. As a model, you are also just an employee like everyone else, and having a good work ethic, good social skills, and a friendly personality are key! Modeling is more than just standing in front of a camera. You are a celebrity; you are there to showcase the products, you hold the company's reputation in your hands at all times, you are what the public sees, you are the face of the company, in a way...you_ are _the company. Not just that, you also have to follow a strict diet, so you don't become too overweight or undernourished. It's such a tiresome job, and posing for long periods can take a real toll on your body. You also...you also need to be the right age as well. There is so much more I can say about my job, but we'll leave it there otherwise we'll be here all night! But it's...it's definitely not for everybody, I'll say that..."_

_"Wow, I never expected that. I hope anyone who is hoping to enter the modeling industry is listening to this right now!"_

_"I do think they need to hear it. A lot of young girls come in and don't expect a lot of the things that models have to do and undergo. I was one of them! Boy, did I get a shock at my first interview when I was asked all these questions about my social life!"_

_"Must have been earthshattering! I'm glad you made it out in once piece!"_

_"Almost didn't."_

You were starting to get a bit bored now. The questions were beginning to get a bit dry. This was why you never listened to Radio 4. Too many people talking.

"I'm heading off to bed," you announced, getting up and taking your book with you. You left your empty teacup behind as your family (except Tom, who, of course, ignored you) bid you goodnight as you crossed the living room and headed over to the staircase. You ambled up the stairs, hearing the last few statements from the radio.

_"Right, so the final question for you, Esmé, since we're starting to run out of time now. In these past few days, there has been word that you're going to be retiring from your modeling career. Is this true?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N (26th April, 2020): I did a few edits to the first chapter before uploading this. Fun fact: Cruella de Vil's mom is called Malevola/Dementia. She was a fashion designer in the book Disney Villians: The Top Secret Files, but I'm not too sure about the TV show since I refuse to watch it and will only use it for minor references like Cruella's family. I went with the former name as that's the one frequently used on the Disney and 101 Dalmatians Wiki. Not to mention, it's easier to find a male variant for this name even though these aren't proper names, according to Google. The word 'malévola' is the Spanish feminine term for 'malicious.' I used the masculine noun as a gender-bent name. If anyone is confused about the prices being 'so expensive' when they're evidently £50 at the lowest, it's because this is not the money value in our time. This fanfic is set in the 1960s, so naturally, the purchasing power of the British pound is significantly higher from what it is in modern-day UK today. Today, the GBP is worth just over 1 USD ($1.25 to be exact at the time I'm writing this). So what is the value of the prices listed in 1965? Don't worry, ya girl worked it out for you, so no need to look it up yourself. Make sure you bear this in mind for later chapters as not to get confused. I'll make sure to show the approximate prices of the products in the story at the end of each chapter that mentions money. Here are the approximate costs of House of DeVil's clothes if they were were sold today:
> 
> £80 Skirt = £1,409.46 ($1,743.50)  
> £60 Blouse = £1,057.09 ($1,307.62)  
> £15 Tights = £264.27 ($326.90)  
> £150 Heels = £2,642.73 ($3,269.06)  
> £279 Leather Handbag = £4,915.48 ($6,080.45)  
> £390 Trenchcoat = £6,871.10 ($8,499.55)
> 
> £974 Total = £17,160.13 ($21,227.08)


	4. Chapter 3: It's A Man's World

** **

**Chapter 3: It's a Man's World **

* * *

Monday rolled around quicker than you could have anticipated. Come morning; you found Diego slumped at the bottom of your bed and sleeping the day away. He appeared to have snuck into your room during the night and gracelessly flopped ontop of your legs, so by the time you removed your legs from under him, they were as numb as can be. You cringed when you got up to get dressed as all of the blood from your knee to your toes had been entirely cut off.

You spent the next 15 minutes getting dressed for work. You decided to go with a formal black sheath dress, tan tights, and black heels, tieing your hair up into a neat French twist bun and applying your usual makeup.

You checked the time before leaving your room, glad to find that it was only six-thirty and that you had time for a quick breakfast before you would have to be out the door for seven. (Sometimes when you were late, you had to settle with a banana or a clementine to eat on your way to work after haphazardly grabbing something from the fruit bowl on your way out the door.) When you got downstairs, you were happy to find that your mom was already up and pouring the usual morning tea.

"Morning (Name)! The water has just finished boiling, what tea do you want, and what do you want for breakfast?" she asked with a welcoming smile.

"Granola with Darjeeling," you answered, sitting down at the table across from your brother, who was wolfing down his sugar-coated Weetabix. Your dad was at the head of the table, eating his full English and skimming his morning paper, The Daily Mail. (He always read The Times or The London Evening Standard in the evenings and The Daily Mail in the mornings.)

"Okay!" your mom replied, opening the Twinings tin and popping a tea bag into your mug and preparing you a bowl of nutty granola, fresh summer fruits, and plain fat-free yogurt. She knew off by heart how you needed it, so it didn't take her long to prepare it and place it in front of you along with your sugar-free Darjeeling tea with hemp milk.

You ate your breakfast in silence until your mom came over with her eggs and toast and Earl Grey tea, sitting down next to you.

"Be careful on your way to work, you two; it snowed overnight, so there's a lot of ice. The roads and paths will be slippy, and walking will be difficult, especially in those heels (Name)," your mother warned, briefly glancing down at your feet under the table. "Be careful on your way to school as well, Tom. No running about with your friends; otherwise, you'll slip."

"Is there much snow? Cor, they'll be so many snowball fights at lunchtime! Joe and I will absolutely deck Billy, Matt, and Finley! Can I go to Joe's house after school? He wants to introduce me to his mates out of school!" Tom asked, looking gleeful like a three-week-old puppy.

You rolled your eyes, "Tom, the snow out there is like a millimeter deep. Not to mention, the weather forecast said that it wouldn't stick until later in the week."

Tom rolled his eyes and gave you a dirty look, obviously pissed that you had burst his bubble.

"Yes, Tom, you can go, as long as you're back by eight. Make sure you get the underground train back home. You remember which one you have to take, don't you? You have to take the Victoria line."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Mom, are you sure that's a good idea? Tom, all of your friends live nowhere near here. It'll take ages to get back here...not to mention, it'll be dark..." you frowned.

"Oh, calm down (Name), Tom can take care of himself!" your mother laughed.

Your frown hardened. Great, so you weren't allowed to be out any later than 5, but it was okay for Thomas — a 13-year-old — to ride the train and wander around London in the longer evenings without a care in the world? When did your family become so narrow-minded?

You quickly finished your breakfast and grabbed your coat, scarf, gloves, and purse. You yelled a quick 'goodbye' to your family in the kitchen before heading out of the door.

✤♚✤

The trip to work took about just over an hour on the train and the bus. Thankfully the ice and snow weren't too bad, and you only slipped a tiny bit. Fortunately, you managed to avoid falling on your bum and getting a giant wet patch on the back of your coat.

When you had made it to Hanover Square, you noticed that it had begun to snow again. You watched the snowflakes fall from the sky and down onto the pavement and roads. You pulled your coat tighter across yourself to conserve warmth. Your legs and face were already cold enough as it was.

You carried on walking down the street, weaving your way through the people who always seemed to be in a rush to get somewhere. You watched your breath come out in small puffs and disappear in front of you. As usual, on your way to work, you began to think and daydream.

At some point down the line, your life became very docile. You couldn't recall the precise time when you began to feel so sedated. It was a question you kept asking yourself, but never were you able to come up with an answer that sounded right. In which case, was it all in your head then? Did you just feel this way while many exciting things were going on around you, but you were just too wrapped up in your own world to see them?

You got a job to try and remedy your boredom. Although working at House of DeVil had made some improvements, they didn't make a tremendous impact. Even as a model, you still felt like you blended into the background in one way or another, which was something one wouldn't expect at first. Truth was, there were so many other people who outshined you, and although that was a natural, unavoidable thing in life, it felt like it was increased tenfold when among your co-workers at the House. In which case, maybe you should quit? But where would you go? You had placed all of your chips into the pot to land a job at such a high-end company, gambling with whatever you had just to get an interview. You couldn't just quit after six months and let all of your hard work go down the drain just like that. This was the best thing that would ever happen to you! So you shoved your negative thoughts away and prepared your happy face.

When you reached the House of DeVil, your eyes widened at the mass crowd surrounding the doors. Scattered around the entrance were various reporters and camera operators with vans from countless national and local tabloid newspapers, radio stations, and TV channels. A few you recognized was from the BBC, ITV, The Daily Mirror, The London Evening Standard, The Sun and The Daily Mail.

You suddenly slowed down your walk as you approached the mass, purposefully drawing your gaze away from the hovering people holding a diverse variety of cameras and microphones. As you shuffled towards the doors, it didn't take them long to figure out you were an employee.

"Hey, excuse me, miss, can you give us a statement on the current rumor of Esmé Boutroux's retirement?" one male reporter asked, rushing over to you and shoving a microphone in your face. Many other reporters flocked behind him and shooting questions left and right, stopping you in your tracks.

"Do you closely work with Esmé? Are you a model?" another man pressed.

"Why has House of DeVil been keeping this from the public?" a woman inquired.

"I don't know anything," you flatly grunted, walking around them and rushing over to the doors as fast as you could in heels and without slipping on the ice.

You found it remarkable how they thought you would know something, much less tell them anything about it. Granted, you heard the rumors, but it was far from your place to comment.

"But do you work closely with Cruell de Vil?" the same woman quizzed, walking alongside you to the door, keeping her microphone close to your face. Any closer and it would be in your mouth.

You felt your patience quickly decrease by the second. You glared at any of the reporters and camera operators who got anywhere near you as you reached the glass doors. Thankfully none of them appeared to take any unsolicited photos of you as you were refusing to talk, but you were sure the film cameras were rolling just in case you would crack and relay anything that they could lick up.

What was the collective noun for a bunch of persistent, single-minded, indefatigable news reporters? A pack? A herd? A flock? A school?

When you were about ready to yell at them, the Senior Security Manager, Malcolm, opened the glass door for you. You sent him a thankful smile as he quickly urged you in, shooting daggers at the reporters outside and shutting the door behind you.

"Thank you, Malcolm," you smiled, as Malcolm resumed his temporary post by the door. He was obviously stood there to prevent any bold reporters from sneaking in when no one was looking. It was the norm when they came flocking near the entrance. "These reporters are relentless, what's got them crowding around the doors?" you questioned the middle-aged man. You had an idea why, but you asked nonetheless.

"I haven't the foggiest (Name). I'm sure we'll find out later on, though..." he shrugged with a half-smile.

"I see. Well, good luck with the vampires!" you joked, causing him to laugh as you made your way over to the front desk.

At the desk sat the security guard, Fred O'Connor (who you had dubbed 'Normal Fred'). As soon as he caught sight of you, Fred immediately looked up with a broad smile.

"Good morning (Name)!" he greeted cheerfully as you made your way up to the desk.

"Morning!" you politely smiled as Fred held out the clipboard and pen, which you took and quickly filled out your name, your signature, and the time you got in on the employee sign-in sheet.

"How was your weekend?" he asked with a smile.

"Good. I didn't do much besides go out for coffee with Monica," you replied, as he looked around for your ID card. "How was yours?"

"I was here on Saturday, welcoming visitors, and Sunday I just lounged around the house. It was nice to have a lie-in," he smiled, handing you your card. "You look lovely today, by the way," he grinned, leaning forward.

"Oh, thank you," you gratefully smiled. He always said this just about every morning when you came in. You had never questioned him about it, besides that one occasion when you casually mentioned that he always said that, hoping to get some context to the frequent compliments. His response was that you always looked lovely. These days you could only assume that the cause was a small crush or something similar.

Fred bit the inside of his cheek as he briefly looked away. It looked like there was something on his mind that he was aggressively endeavoring to articulate. You raised an eyebrow at his expression, but Christine suddenly approached the desk from your right before he could open his mouth.

"Fred, I need the keys to Closet 8," Christine interrupted, walking over with her usual prompt swagger. Fred nodded and raked around for the keys. "Oh, good morning (Name)," she greeted with a small smile, not noticing your presence until the last minute.

"Morning, Christine."

"Boy, these reporters, am I right? You didn't have any trouble getting in, did you?" she questioned, tilting her head.

"I got hassled on my way in but nothing too bad. I'm assuming you and Mr. De Vil got in alright?" you asked, making polite conversation.

"Oh yeah, just fine. The driver went around to the back entrance to avoid a fuss. Mr. De Vil wasn't happy," she giggled.

"You're telling me he wanted to chat with the reporters?" you asked skeptically. "In which case, he shouldn't worry. I'm sure they'll be here all morning," you remarked, punctuating your sentence by pointing your thumb to the doors behind you. Christine giggled again and shook her head.

"No, no, it's nothing like that. Mr. De Vil loathes the press, but he _does_ like to be seen. He likes to come in through the front entrance because it always turns a few heads, that's all," she explained, as Fred handed her the keys. "Oh, before I forget, Fred, and has Esmé come in yet?" she asked, turning her attention back to the brunette behind the desk.

"Not that I've seen. Her name isn't on the sheet, is it (Name)?" Fred inquired as you quickly scanned the list of names in the left column.

"No, doesn't look like she's here yet," you answered, turning your attention back to them.

"Drat," Christine cursed, "usually she's here by now."

"I wouldn't worry. She might have been held up by the ice. I imagine it will become abundantly clear when she arrives with all those reporters smudging up the glass out there," you shrugged, glancing at the doors to see the media still standing around in the cold waiting to ambush the next poor sod on their way in.

"She's right. I'll phone if I see her," Fred reassured Christine with a humble smile.

"Okay, thanks..." Christine replied, still worried.

At the thought of Esmé possibly being late, your mind immediately went back to the interview last night. You were making you way up the stairs but lingered when Esmé was asked about her sudden retirement. Although you couldn't see her, you didn't need to, as you could sense her awkwardness and embarrassment in her tone and how she tried to dodge the question. But what really shocked you was how the media found out so quickly. It was just a rumor, wasn't it? Surely nothing was official yet if Esmé was even leaving in the first place. In an attempt to give her a further piece of mind, you brought it up.

"She was on the radio quite late last night. Maybe that has something to do with it?" you asked, which caught Christine's attention.

"Oh yeah, I was informed she had an upcoming interview this weekend. Why?" she quired.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to find the best way to say this without sounding like a gossip. You weren't Lisa. You didn't want your reputation to change and be known around the building as that one gossiper who knows too much for her own good.

"You may want to listen to it yourself, but some of the questions seemed to make her uncomfortable. Maybe she decided to take the day off because of that?" you asked, sort of dancing around the topic. You felt like you were dobbing her in for something somehow. It made you uncomfortable, but you were just trying to be at least a little bit helpful.

Christine fully turned to you with a panicked expression. You were suddenly caught off guard by her sudden mood swing.

"(Name), what did they ask her?" she asked, eyes wide. You were taken aback but answered anyway.

"Well, uh, they sort of started off with generic questions about her job and the company. About awards and the magazines and stuff like that," you began, as Christine nodded, urging you on. You let out a silent, reluctant sigh, knowing there was no way out of this. "But then they asked her whether she was retiring..."

Christine's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and her body went rigid. Her gaze drifted away from your face. You bit the inside of your cheek, waiting for her next words.

"U-Uh..." she uttered, looking worried, "this isn't good..."

"I thought it was just a rumor. Is it?" you asked, trying to look concerned. It didn't have anything to do with you so it was difficult to care about these sorts of things, but social convention demanded that you act accordingly.

"No, it's true, but you didn't hear that from me. Though we haven't made any official statements yet," she replied, looking away. Fred was looking between the two of you, confused.

"You mean someone leaked information...?" you asked lowly, studying at the brunette's worried expression.

"It seems so," she sighed. "This is not good. Mr. De Vil is going to be furious when he hears this, and even _more_ angry when he discovers she hasn't shown up..."

"Is...he going to be coming around today?" you faltered, silently praying for a 'no.'

"Likely, but I haven't had a chance to go over his schedule yet. I'd keep my head down if I were you. This is going to put him in a bad mood..." she sighed, picking up the keys and turning away. "See you later (Name)."

"Bye," you responded, before giving a short wave to Fred and walking over to the elevator. You pressed the button to ascend to the seventh floor. During the ride up, you went over the conversation in your head.

So, Esmé really was leaving then? You couldn't say you were surprised but weren't completely unsurprised either. You knew she would eventually pass her prime, but you didn't realize that day would come so quickly. It made you a bit scared for when the company would suddenly decide to let you go and replace you with a newer, younger model. (Provided you didn't do something to get fired between now and then.) And to think, the idea of resigning had briefly crossed your mind ten minutes ago. No, you would protect your shitty yet well-paid job until your first wrinkle!

You took a deep breath and lightly chuckled at yourself, shaking your head in disbelief. God, were you actually getting slightly worked up over this? At the end of the day, all of this was just work gossip. Even if it did make you thankful for what you had, again, it had nothing to do with you, so you had no reason to concern yourself with it. It would blow over eventually, and the reporters would stop flocking near the entrance, tempting you to angrily bite their microphones that they kept obnoxiously shoving in your face.

The elevator stopped on the seventh floor, and you walked over to the dressing room. You could hear talking from behind the door as you entered, seeing most of the models already there and getting ready. Lisa immediately spotted you and rushed over.

"Morning (Name)!" she greeted, grabbing some clothes from a nearby rack. "All of your clothes are here, Fred wants you to begin with this," she informed you, holding up a black blouse, tan tights, a white, woolen skirt with a matching buttoned jacket, gloves, and white heels with black tips. She walked over to a dressing cubicle and placed them inside, ready for when you would get changed. She then handed you the usual plain black clothes for you to wear as you had your makeup done. You quickly slipped into the black T-shirt and leggings and handed your day clothes and handbag to Lisa to put away in one of the cupboards.

"Well, come on then," Marcelle sighed, urging you to follow her to the dressing table. Knowing the drill, you trailed after her like a trained dog and slumping down into the chair as Marcelle got to work.

Once she was done, you headed off to the dressing cubicle. Five minutes later, you came back out to see Lisa waiting for you with a smile, holding a chiffon, houndstooth scarf, and a golden, sapphire broach. She pulled you aside so she could put both of them on. The three of you then walked to the photoshoot room where Fred Taylor (AKA Creepy Fred) was waiting for you as he set up his camera.

"Mornin' sweetie," he smirked, looking up from his camera. You sent him a cold glare in return and silently stood prim, waiting to be told what to do.

Marcelle and Lisa stood aside after Lisa stopped fussing with your outfit to make sure it was perfect and not a crinkle in sight. Fred gave you a quick run-through about what was planned for today and told you to stand in front of the screen, instructing you to adjust your positioning to what he thought was best.

You let out a soft sigh, feeling exhausted already. Work had only just begun, and you already felt washed out. It was undoubtedly going to be a long day.

✤♚✤

After it had just gone twelve, you were relieved from professional dress-up for an hour and granted your lunchbreak. You, Marcelle, and Lisa all cried out in relief as you all retreated to the dressing room so you could take off your outfit. As usual, you put your black outfit back on with some black pumps so you could go to lunch. They were placeholders to avoid makeup or food from getting on any of the expensive designer clothes. It wasn't unusual to see models wearing them as no one had the time to put their day clothes back on for an hour. Thankfully, the cafeteria wasn't a very stuffy place that demanded you wear formal attire to enter. Although, you wouldn't dare walk around the rest of the building like that.

Like usual, Phoebe, one of the other models, joined the three of you, and you all rode the elevator down to the cafeteria on the fourth floor. She was pleasant enough, but much like Lisa and Marcelle, you weren't exactly friends. On the surface, the four of you were like a High School friendship group, but in reality, you only hung out together during work hours because you worked closely with each other as Lisa and Marcelle did Phoebe's hair, makeup, and clothes too. You all kind of stuck together for your own reasons. Lisa needed people to talk to, Marcelle hated everyone else, Phoebe was intimidated by the other models and didn't wish to be around them, and you preferred the idea of sitting with almost-friends over being a loner. You found out the hard way that House of DeVil was much more bearable when you had people around you.

Although it was a sad truth, you had accepted it for what it was. You knew that the four of you would never hang out outside of work. You all had your own lives and your own friends, and no one had objected to the unspoken agreement that none of you would get any closer than what you were now. It didn't bother you as you already had friends, so you didn't require any more. You weren't at all fussy about the details, as long as you had some people to have lunch with and talk to now and then.

You had come to discover that this wasn't exclusive to your group. In fact, it seemed that just about everyone at House of DeVil kept their work and social lives separate, aside from a small minority. There was a particular atmosphere of detachment around the building that no one seemed to acknowledge. Ignoring all of the glamour, the overwhelming pressure, and the explosive boss, the thing that differentiated House of DeVil from other work environments was the lack of relationships that were formed when working there. It wasn't clear at first glance, but after six months of working there, you noticed that no one seemed to make friends or get to know one another on a romantic level. Just about everyone seemed to stay in their own lane and keep to themselves. That's what made your mother's hope of the prospect of you having an office romance so laughable. No one wanted anything to do with anyone! It would be a miracle if you ever got to the first date!

You chuckled to yourself. It was like High School all over again. Only without the raging hormones, the small slip of paper from the teacher that said you were allowed out of class to take a shit and the fact that you were forced to be there by the crushing fear of execrable bankruptcy and not your parents, and UK law. You couldn't deny that you too, played your part in the general aloofness. You weren't blind, you knew you were far from the most approachable individual. Although, you couldn't find it in yourself to care when so far it had done more good than harm. Maybe when you were looking to broaden your friendship circle and find a boyfriend, would you address it. But why worry about it now? You were getting paid to work, not make friends.

"I'm so hungry," Lisa groaned, "I hope they're serving the spicy fried chicken baguettes."

You winced at the mention of spicy fried chicken. God, when was the last time you had fried anything? The thought of eating anything else other than a salad at the cafeteria made you almost cry.

You all grabbed a tray, and each selected your lunches. There was a vast difference in how you and Phoebe chose your meals to how Lisa and Marcelle did. While Lisa and Marcelle actually took a few seconds to consider what they wanted, you and Phoebe habitually grabbed a Caesar salad box, an apple, and a bottle of Buxton still water, like you had done day after day for the last six months. That was the strict routine. Salad. Fruit. Water. Till.

You and Phoebe sat down at a table after paying for your food. Lisa and Marcelle arrived a minute later after taking longer to actually decide what they wanted to eat. You and Phoebe didn't have that luxury, even if it seemed like you did. You glanced around at the other tables, seeing that the other models all had a salad too, as per usual. You were one of many. A zombie. Part of a collective hive mind that demanded you eat leaves, counting the calories ingested into your system. You were sure you were in some sort of salad cult by this point. Not that you hated salad by any means, who did? But, eating salad at 12:30 for 183 days? That was pure insanity.

"So, did any of you girlies hear Esmé on the radio last night?" Lisa asked, looking devious.

Great. Not even a second into a conversation, and Esmé becomes the first icebreaker. You were already sick of hearing her name pop up all day. If only you received a penny for every time you heard 'Esmé' or 'reporters,' you wouldn't have to work and would own a yacht. God, you were so ready for something else to be the topic of interest now. Could NASA please just hurry up and fly to the moon already? Clearly, some excitement was overdue if this was what people thought was a groundbreaking topic right now.

"Nope," Marcelle grunted, digging into her cornish pasty.

"You should have! You should have heard her talking to the host. God, so smug!" she scoffed with a roll of her eyes, biting into her spicy chicken sandwich. Her face quickly brightened up, however, taking a full 180 mood swing. "But the ending question was absolute gold! You should have heard her! God, she was put on the spot, and she was mortified, haha! Then it just gets better when she gets called out for dodging the question! Serves her right, we all can't wait until you go, honey..."

"I didn't listen to the radio last night, but is that why all those reporters are outside? Because Esmé said she was retiring?" Phoebe asked.

"She didn't actually confirm whether she was or not in the end. But yeah, it seems so. She's the one they're asking about," you answered. Lisa's eyes glinted with mischief. "But the real question is how this got out, considering it was a rumor," you mentioned, turning your attention to Lisa as she was the one who informed you of this in the first place. You narrowed your eyes when she kept unusually quiet, deciding to munch on her sandwich. You watched her suspiciously as Marcelle rose an eyebrow at her. You soon caught on to what she really wanted to talk about. You sent her an incredulous look. "You didn't."

Lisa didn't stay quiet, bursting out with excitement and a huge, proud smile. "Okay, yeah, I did!"

What.

You and Marcelle looked at Lisa, horrified while Phoebe looked at her bewildered.

"Lisa..." Marcelle began.

"...What the fuck?" you finished for her, keeping your voice low.

"Shush, (Name)! Language!" Lisa giggled, while you slowly blinked, taking a moment to process everything. Was she really lecturing you on your language right now?

"You told the press? What were you _thinking_?" Marcelle sputtered, glaring at Lisa.

Lisa rolled her eyes and waved her off. "Oh, calm down, I didn't mean anything bad by it. I was just getting even for something."

"'Didn't mean anything bad by it'? Lisa, Esmé is going to be in so much trouble! Mr. De Vil is probably livid! Do you have any idea what you could have done? This just doesn't affect Esmé; it affects all of us! You've made the entire company look bad! You leaking unofficial information to the press is a borderline scandal!" you hissed with a sharp glare. "Esmé hasn't even come in today, did you know?"

"(Name), calm down, calm down! Jesus Christ, you're getting so worked up about this," she awkwardly chuckled, waving you off. Her laidback attitude just fueled your anger. "You're not going to tell on me, are you?" she asked, looking afraid for a split second as she met your hard glare.

You took a deep breath in and exhaled, calming yourself as best as you could.

"No. I'm not going to do that, and neither is anyone else here," you said, briefly glancing at Phoebe and Marcelle, giving them the silent command, "but I strongly think you need to reflect on your actions and ask yourself whether this was worth it."

"It was!" she beamed.

You felt your anger pique again suddenly, but you held it back.

"Okay then...if that's how you feel. But don't come crying if this comes back to bite you in the ass."

 _'Which it totally will,'_ you thought bitterly.

Lisa rolled her eyes with a silly grin. You looked down at your salad, no longer feeling hungry enough to finish it off. You took your half-empty bottle with you and took your tray over to the trash, not looking back. You would get over it, all of you knew that. You just needed an hour to cool off.

You knew Phoebe and Marcelle were confused as to why you reacted so strongly. Truth was, you were scared for Lisa. She never had been the most subtle of people, and you couldn't shake the feeling that she would get found out sooner or later. It wouldn't be laborious. All Mr. De Vil had to do was ask Christine to get in contact with the BBC. A phonecall could do wonders. Then he would know, and Lisa would be fired quicker than she could utter 'whoops'.

Yet, you knew deep down the real reason why it pissed you off. Lisa clearly didn't have any regard for the stability of her job. You had to fight tooth and nail just to reach the front doors of House of DeVil. Lisa's family was wealthy. She clearly got here through her brilliant track record of attending Clapham Trade School and getting a recommendation and a reference from some rich businessman she worked under who obviously had connections with someone here. And you? You didn't have that luxury to get a more redeemable career here. You would kill for her job. To be good at something. To be a woman and be good at something. If it was possible, you would have much preferred to be a makeup artist, an editor, or literally anything other than a model. (Excluding possibly a janitor, of course.) Yet, for something like that, you would need proper qualifications. You would need to show you were good at something and then have a one in a million chance of scoring an interview for a job opening.

You found it inane that Lisa could gamble with her career the way she did. While you lived in fear of dismissal and endured every mean comment thrown your way, telling yourself that this would all be worth it in the long-run.

Would she care? Honestly, did Lisa really give a shit? Never in your time at work had you ever seen her worried, upset, or concerned. It was always smiles and 'Hakuna Matata' with her. You couldn't help but ponder her reasoning behind this. Why put your job at risk just to cause a stir in the media? You knew she was a gossip and, granted, Lisa as definitely not Esmé's biggest fan, but this was a little extreme, even for her.

You left the cafeteria and rode the elevator back up to the seventh floor. There you sat down at your dressing table and sighed heavily. You wanted nothing more than to rub off your makeup, grab your things, and go home. Was it really only one o'clock? It felt like seven in the evening on a Friday.

It wasn't long until Marcelle came back up and began doing your makeup. She didn't say anything, but she gave you a sympathetic half-smile to say that she didn't think badly of you. Lisa came up a few minutes later, too, with Phoebe in tow, looking as happy as she always did. Though, you noticed that she avoided your gaze as she got your next outfit ready.

You were soon shoved back into the photoshoot room with Fred half an hour later as Marcelle and Lisa went off to cater to Phoebe as she got ready for her photoshoot.

You couldn't help but glare at Fred whenever he got near you. It wasn't right for you to take out your anger on him, but he didn't seem the slightest bit phased by your anger, nor did you care that he was the one unfortunate enough to receive the brunt of it. You hated him, so taking out your anger on him didn't guilt you in the slightest.

"Careful, glare any harder, and you might burn a hole in the wall," he taunted, adjusting the camera settings.

"Oh shut it," you spat, shifting your gaze away from the wall and back to him. If you miraculously developed a superpower to burn things with your eyes, you would be sure to aim your laser vision at Fred's head first.

You probably wouldn't make a very good superhero.

"You've been angry all afternoon. Did something happen during your lunch break?" he asked, glancing up with a small smirk.

"No."

"Jesus, cut the attitude princess, I'm just trying to make conversation!" he countered, holding his arms in mock surrender. "You on your period or something?" he asked.

You froze and sent him the coldest scowl. _'Keep it together, keep it together,'_ you thought to yourself over and over again. Yet you could feel your façade crumbling away quicker and quicker.

"Oops, looks like I forgot the other lens. Stay there, little lady," he announced dismissively, turning away and entering the side room, missing your livid expression.

You ground your teeth and stomped after him. You couldn't control yourself from doing something that could probably become disastrous but needed to happen nevertheless. Your bitterness had built up and reached its peak. You stopped in the doorway, glaring over at the red-faced, middle-aged man.

"What the hell is your issue?" you hissed.

Fred looked up and looked at you, innocently. He momentarily paused from raking around the shelves in the storage room and turned to you. He crossed his arms over the white dress shirt that he usually wore and looked you up and down.

"Sorry?"

"I want to know why you're such a piece of shit, asshole," you spat. If looks could kill, he would be dead on the floor. All you could see was red at that moment, so you could barely stop yourself when you got angry for what felt like the first time in years. The words tumbled out ceaselessly yet naturally. "You parade around here like you own the place, and you have the nerve to speak to me as if you're my superior! You're always poking your nose into my business! Furthermore, you give me all these sickly sweet pet names when we barely know each other! It's highly unprofessional!"

Fred let out a patronizing sigh and shook his head at you as if you were an infant. He wandered over to you and went to place his hands on your arms, but you immediately slapped his hands away and took a step back. He sighed again and put his hands in his pockets instead, looking down at you like an unamused parent.

"(Name), I think you need to cool off."

"Oh! Oh yeah, sure! I'll go do that! Do you want me to leave, make a quick detour to Closet 6 and come back in some lingerie while I'm at it?" you exploded.

As the words came out, you felt more and more at ease despite the rage inside. Was this what it felt like to get something off your chest? For once in his pitiful life, perhaps Fred was right. You really _were_ a snow-capped volcano.

Fred just raised an eyebrow and looked down at you, unamused. It was rare to see him serious or pissed off. Though you didn't let it phase you, because you betted you were a million times more pissed than he could ever be.

"Can you just quit it? I've asked you before, and now, I'm demanding that you listen! _Leave me alone_! I'm not interested! You're like twice my age, and quite frankly, I think you're a bit of a dick! So can you kindly stop with the pet names, bedroom eyes, and invites out for drinks! I'm sick of it!" you yelled, causing Fred to fall silent.

It took you a moment to slightly catch your breath. When you looked up at Fred, you noticed he was looking past you with a blank expression. Confused, you looked behind you and felt your heart plummet into your stomach.

Mr. De Vil stood in the doorway silently. His gaze was locked on you in an endless, hard stare. His eyes were as sharp as razors, looking down at you like an insect. Behind him stood Christine staring at you with wide eyes, looking absolutely mortified.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," he finally said, eyes flicking between you and Fred. They were very much like crocodiles' eyes. As if he was trying to determine which of you, he should attack first.

Although highly irrelevant, you noticed something when you met his gaze. Were his eyes green? You always thought they were blue. Weird.

"Mr. De Vil," Fred began as you quickly averted your gaze to the floor. "I'm sorry you had to hear that. She's been a bit worked up today, and she's just been letting off some steam. We both sincerely apologize for the racket," he chuckled, playing off your outburst with a smile and forced humor. "Why don't you go get some coffee? I'm sure you'll feel much better after a short break," he smiled, turning to you.

You noticed through the corner of your eye the look Fred gave you with his eyes. His smile didn't reach his eyes at all. His chilling, blue eyes burned into your skull with such intensity, sending a million messages at once with just one gaze. You knew what his eyes were saying without properly meeting them. They surely said something along the lines of, 'Get the fuck out of this room right this second, or so help me, I will rip you to shreds if you damage my career or my reputation.'

You kept your gaze glued to the floor as you scurried out of the room. Your face was on fire, and your heart was beating so tremendously fast. As you passed Mr. De Vil, you caught a faint whiff of cigarettes and rich cologne, as you kept as much distance between the two of you as you could manage. As pleasant as the latter was, it was just a painful reminder that he was still there and that he hadn't disappeared just because you stopped looking at him.

Your heels clacking against the studio's waxed wooden floor was the only sound that echoed through the two rooms. It was almost emetic. You could feel Fred's, Christine's, and Mr. De Vil's gazes lingering on your back as you made the walk of shame across the studio and over to the exit. You didn't dare turn around. Your fear and embarrassment kept your gaze locked forward on the door, nothing swaying you from turning around or stopping at that moment.

 _'Just go, just go, just go,'_ the voice in your head urged you over and over like a mantra. It wasn't until you had pulled open the door did the three of them begin speaking again. Fred immediately jumped into his usual foolish rambling to save his ass from Cruell de Vil's wrath or the papers of employment termination.

As the door shut behind you, you heard Mr. De Vil speak up with Christine's voice chiming in. Yet it was impossible to hear what they were saying as Mr. De Vil spoke in an eerily calm voice, which wasn't common from what you had heard during your six months there. Though it didn't soothe you at all, it was just the calm before the storm. You would not be let off the hook for this.

You rushed past the changing rooms and into the ladies' toilets, thankful to find them empty. You leaned against the wall and caught your breath, feeling as if you had run a marathon instead of walking across the studio. You brought your hands up to your face, mind racing with everything that had just transpired. So much for keeping your head down. So much for protecting your godforsaken job.

This was what you got for letting your anger get the best of you. This was the karma that came for not bottling up your emotions. You had learned time and time again that speaking your mind was the worst thing you could do. And yet, you never got the message no matter how many times you thought you had learned your lesson. You were so tremendously stupid, and now you were going to pay the price. Would you ever learn just to shut up?

You let out a shaky breath as you moved your hands away from your face. One thought came to your mind as you opened your eyes to be met with the bright lights above.

You've fucked up.

_You've fucked up bad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N (June, 17th 2020): Boy, did I really want to mention Albert Einstein with the definition of insanity quote. But turns out, much like many of Marylin Monroe's inspirational quotes, he probably didn't say it. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! God, these men are so sexist! I looked up sexist pet names for women that they have been called at work or in another professional environment and came up with some of the ones that have been used thus far. I get so disgusted writing Creepy Fred, I cringe every time I write his dialogue! But things are really starting to kick off now! I'm having so much fun writing this! It requires so much research into the 60s, but I'm happy that I'm able to mention a lot of UK products and slang terms that I've grown up with. I usually write a lot of fanfics set in the US, so it's not often I get to write a fanfic set in my home country! Here's a rule, if you speak to a person who claims to be from the UK who has never heard of Weetabix, they're obviously lying about their heritage, so make sure to call them out on their bullshit immediately!
> 
> Also, I should probably highlight this message. Even though this in in the disclaimer in the introduction, I want to make this very clear. This fanfic is going to deal with a lot of sensitive topics such as body image (particularly unrealistic ones), body dysmorphia, anxiety, anorexia, depression, and suicide. The full list is in the introduction. Please don't read this if these are topics you would rather avoid. The story may get a bit brutal with some of these topics, so please bear this in mind before you continue reading. Thanks!


	5. Discord Server!

**Poll status: [CLOSED]**

Hey guys!

So a week or so ago, I received a request to make a Discord Server. The thought has crossed my mind a few times before, and I liked the idea of it, but I had never put much thought into the idea until now. I didn't think I would have much use for one, not to mention, I wasn't sure many people would be interested, so I brushed off the idea. Though after receiving some more positive feedback on the idea, seeing some other authors on AO3 making one and getting pushed by my beta-reader to at least make an A/N on the topic, I've reconsidered. 

I've decided to make a poll to see what you guys think about the idea. The poll is to see how many people would be interested in joining the server and whether I should go through with the idea or not. I would have just decided to make one now, but to put it bluntly, I don't want to take the time to make one if it doesn't interest people. So, I'd really appreciate it if you took the time to tell me what you think.

To give a visual, I imagine I'd make a general Earl-April server so I can be inclusive to all my fanfics and their readers as opposed to just creating a CP server, my most popular book. The Discord server would probably have folders to each one of my fanfics and channels to discussions on theories, recent chapters, characters, etc. There would probably be a general chat, an announcement channel, some voice channels, perhaps a Q&A chat, a meme channel, a few off-topic chats, etc.

The poll link is at the bottom of this page, so I'd really appreciate it if you could tell me whether this is a good idea and whether you think I should make a server. 

The poll will be open until **12:00 GMT+1/BST time** on the **19th of July**!

[☕Click here to take the poll!☕](https://strawpoll.com/x4z3kuojc)


	6. Poll Results!

Hey guys!

So the poll is now closed, and the results have been gathered and counted up. Here are the results!

So as you can see, the yes's won. In that case, I'll make the Discord and create a few channels. I'll make sure to have it ready in a few days and release it with Chapter 17 of CP.

I'll use the server as another place to release more frequent announcements like if I'm going on a hiatus or when a new chapter is uploaded. The latter I don't do on my Tumblr feed and only release the link for a new fanfic when it's uploaded. I think this would be a nice way to release announcements without clogging up my Tumblr feed whenever I make a new chapter for a fanfic. I'll start off small and create a few folders with a couple of channels like a general chat, some announcement channels, an off-topic channel, some fanfic discussion chats, etc. I'll update it over time by making more channels like maybe a Q&A where I can answer some questions about my fanfics or just general topics, or a theory chat, or a music channel, to list a few. If anyone has any requests for a channel, a role, or whatever else you can think of, then don't be afraid to ask because I'm very uncreative, and you guys will probably come up with much better ideas than I ever could! This will likely be a small server with a couple of people, but I like the idea of a small community where we can all chat and ignore all responsibilities and commitments!

Regardless of the story, I'll put the link to the server at the bottom of the next chapter. I'll also include it in the link list in the Introduction, on each of my profiles and in my Tumblr feed. I'll have the link ready for the next chapter of CP as that's the next fanfic I'm updating. I suppose it also celebrates the next tipping point in that story, as the plot will properly kick-off and get into the full swing following that chapter. For those who don't read the CP series, just keep an eye out for the link on my Tumblr feed as I will release it there as soon as the CP chapter comes out!

I'll soon delete this A/N along with the one before it upon the release of the next CP chapter. Thank you to everyone who took the poll! I hope we'll have a lot of fun with the new Discord! I look forward to releasing the link!

\- Earl-April

**Author's Note:**

> Check my Tumblr for updates: https://yandereswithknives.tumblr.com/
> 
> ⚠️Mature warning! This story contains graphic descriptions of violence and gore, sexual content, strong language, and imitable behavior. This story could be potentially triggering. This story is not suitable for children or sensitive readers! Please consult the introduction for further details regarding the disclaimers. The predicted age rating for this story is +18. This warning may change. Read at your own risk!⚠️
> 
> Cover created by me, image featured in the cover is not mine.  
> 101 Dalmatians © Disney.  
> (Name) © You.  
> OCs © YandereswithKnives.
> 
> © 2020– YANDERESWITHKNIVES ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


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